


Crosscurrents and Consequences

by ColdColdHeart



Series: The Key to Oslov [11]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Bit of F/F, Brothels, Dystopia, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage, Mental Health Issues, Original Slash, Past Brainwashing, Past Underage Sex, Politics, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Prostitution, Revenge, Revolution, Spies & Secret Agents, Suicidal Thoughts, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2020-10-18 14:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 104,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20640842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdColdHeart/pseuds/ColdColdHeart
Summary: A lot went down both before and during Tilrey and Gersha'sTrip to Harbour. Now they're back in Oslov, and it's time for them to face the consequences and figure out their path going forward. That may involve a little side trip into the cold heart of the Wastes.Vera Linnett has tough choices to make, too. And there's another character working way behind the scenes who could, if she has her way, bring this whole world down.





	1. Prologue: Seven Years Ago

The sun had just struggled above the jagged fin of Mount Thor when a traveler came to Artur Threindal’s door. She was very young, very blond, and very tired. Her escorts were four Outer tribesmen with thick beards and fur boots who’d been paid to bring her all the way from the shore of Husson Strait.

She whispered the password in a dead language: “_Resurgam_.” She looked terrified.

“Come in,” said Artur in Harbourer, ushering her into the warmth of his sitting room. He wasn’t fluent in the language, but it sufficed. He instructed his servant to take the tribesmen to the back kitchen, feed them well for their trouble, and send them on their way.

He was glad Moneta wasn’t back yet from her rounds. Each time they had a visitor from the south, she made it clear she hoped this one was the last. But Artur had been entrusted with this duty by the same party who’d funded their snug stone house roofed with solar panels, and he tried to take it seriously. For the young travelers’ sake, if no one else’s.

“You must have had a hard journey,” he said, helping the girl peel off layers of furs. Like all of them, she stunk from the long overland journey in temperatures that prohibited bathing. She was even younger than the others he’d trained—in her mid-teens, he suspected. “How long did it take?” he asked, switching to Oslov.

For a moment, panic showed in the girl’s eyes. Then she replied in heavily accented Oslov, “Four ten-days from the ship. Three ten-days on the ship before that. Three months from my home.”

Artur didn’t ask where home was; it didn’t matter. His job was to give her a new one.

“From now on, you address me as Fir,” he said, drawing himself up with all his old Reddan dignity. He came from a family of respectable desk-job Laborers going back generations, even if he was an exile now. “You were born seventy kilometers south of here, near Clearwater, and you’ve never been any farther south than that. Your father is an Oslov soldier and your mother was an Outer who had a dalliance with him. At least, that’s what she told you. That you are ‘half Oslov.’ Understand?”

“Yes, Fir.” The girl’s voice was sullen with exhaustion. Some of these recruits were eager volunteers and others not so willing, but Artur couldn’t afford to think much about that. Or about how young this one was.

“From now on, your name is Einara Derán,” he said, concocting a combination of Outer-sounding first name and Oslov surname on the spot. “I don’t want to know who you’ve been up to now. You’re not that person anymore. You’re an Oslov by blood. Your one goal in life is to return to Redda, where your father comes from and you belong.”

“Yes, Fir.” Einara stared down at the pine planks. She was beautiful because she had to be, but she was a kid, and she looked like any minute she might be sick all over his floor.

“Come,” Artur said more gently. He sat her down by the hearth and poured her a fresh cup of his best black-market tea. “It’s not so bad,” he added. “By the time we’re done here, even you’ll be convinced you’re a real Oslov.”

For the first time, two fierce blue eyes targeted him directly. “I _hate _Oslovs. They killed my mother and sister when they sent fire from the sky. I want to kill all of them. I want to kill _you_.”

For a moment, Artur thought she might actually attack him; his eyes darted to the loaded bolt-action rifle hanging over the hearth. Then the girl’s whole body went slack with fatigue, and she sank deeper into the chair, shivering. “I hate you,” she said softly, still in Oslov.

Artur nodded encouragingly. “You’ve been doing your lessons, haven’t you? You have a nice vocabulary. Now, if only we can get you to say all that in a more believable accent, you may actually have a chance of getting exactly what you want.”

“To kill Oslovs.”

Artur quailed inside when he saw how thoroughly some of the recruits were brainwashed. He couldn’t tell them everything he knew and suspected about their Glorious Resurgent Leader, but he could do his best to give them a fighting chance at a better life. Sometimes, when they got to know and trust him, he dared to drop hints that they’d be better off as free agents, looking out only for themselves.

But this one was far from that stage. She had an ax to grind, and apparently she was eager to bury it in some Oslov skulls. “You’ll kill Oslovs, yes,” he said with a solemn nod, then turned away with a sigh to pour himself more tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'll try to update this story weekly and may start updating "All the Kinds of Broken" biweekly, but we'll see how things go. Updates are also on [Tumblr](https://welcome-to-oslov.tumblr.com/).


	2. The Talk

“I still wish you’d let me come along,” Gersha said, watching the black spires of the Sector float past the window of the mag-car. Bosh was driving them both home from their first day back at the office. But Tilrey had a stop to make on the way.

Tilrey shook his head firmly. “It needs to be just me. Vera doesn’t understand about us; she wouldn’t speak freely with you there.”

Gersha kept having a feeling—absurd, he knew—that letting Tilrey go on this errand alone was like giving him a push into a dark void from which he wouldn’t return. He slid a few inches farther onto Tilrey’s side of the seat, craving physical contact but not wanting to cling. “Vera would never have sent that message to my account if she didn’t trust me.”

“She trusted you not to open it. That’s not the same as trusting you with the contents.”

“I just want to be with you.” Gersha knew he was fretting like a jealous teenage boyfriend, but he couldn’t help himself. This was only their third day back in Oslov, first day in the Sector, and the pressure of old expectations was already crushing him as surely as the cold. Every time he caught one of his colleagues gazing at Tilrey with unmasked lust or casual contempt, he wanted to bark at them to keep their eyes to themselves. So many things that had once seemed normal—if not exactly _okay_—were now unbearable.

“You need to tell Vera,” he went on, “that we’re bonded in a way nothing can change, and by _choice_. You will tell her that, won’t you?”

“Shh, love.” Tilrey’s gloved hand found Gersha’s and squeezed, making warmth bloom in Gersha’s chest. “Of course I will. _Husband_,” he added in Gersha’s ear, his hair tickling Gersha’s cheek. “The only reason I didn’t tell her before is that, well—”

“You didn’t tell her because you were busy seducing her so you could have the support of her and her Councillor husband.” Gersha couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone, but he didn’t push Tilrey away—he was done making that mistake. “It was politics as usual.”

He couldn’t say in Bosh’s earshot that the seduction of Vera had also been part of Tilrey’s service to the brewing rebellion. The driver had always been the soul of discretion, but now wasn’t the time to test his loyalty.

Tilrey slipped his arm around Gersha’s waist, starting a pleasant thrum in the Councillor’s groin. “I could have told Vera what you mean to me, but I honestly didn’t think it was her business. Now I almost wish I had.”

“Do you think she could have done this on purpose?” The idea was new—and alarming. Everyone knew mistakes happened with contraception now and then, but would a Linnett _choose _to have a bastard child with a Laborer? No matter how infatuated she was with Tilrey, Gersha couldn’t imagine Vera—or any Upstart woman at her level—desiring a misbirth. He knew of men who’d fathered a child with a Laborer and hidden it, like Niko Karishkov, but that was different. Easier.

The mag-car’s undercarriage rumbled as it left the grid, heading for the platform of a sleek R-10 high-rise. “No, I don’t think that,” Tilrey said, stroking Gersha’s shoulder blade through the coat. His tone was rueful. “Look, the reason I never clarified things with Vera is that her husband got between us. We had a fight, and she ended up hating my guts. After that, I don’t think she’d have anything more to do with me if she could help it.”

_Or she’s more in love with you than ever. _Gersha kept the dark thought to himself. He knew all too well how Tilrey’s very distance could strengthen his magnetic pull.

“Will you trust me to handle this?” Tilrey asked.

“Of course.” The words came easily. Since their time in Harbour, Gersha had woken every day knowing he trusted Tilrey with his life and vice versa. The commitment that had once terrified him was now as normal as sunrise and sunset. “But I want to be involved in this. I _should _be involved.”

“You will be, love. I promise.” Tilrey gave Gersha a final pat on the back and wound his scarf around his lower face. The September wind outside was fearsome. It was hard to believe that only a few days ago they’d been rambling in shirt-sleeves through the mellow, golden autumn of Harbour.

Gersha tried to recall the sense-memories of the fresh, lake-scented breeze and the prickle of grass under his feet, against his face—oh, yes. The recollection of what they’d done in the grass, under the stars, brought a pleasant blush to his cheeks. He should go home and start one of those letters he’d promised to write Duke Dalziel, even if he didn’t dare discuss what actually weighed on his mind.

“I’ll tell you everything that happens,” Tilrey promised him, unlatching the door.

“Your cane!” Gersha waved it at him. Despite all the strain on it in the early days, Tilrey’s fractured ankle was healing well. He’d insisted on retiring the crutch, but his limp was still pronounced.

One foot out of the car, Tilrey took the cane with a grimace. “I _can _walk.”

Cold air whooshed into the warm interior, stinging Gersha’s exposed face. “You don’t want to compromise your healing, do you?”

“Okay, okay. Now, go talk to Besha—he’s been weirdly urgent about seeing you. In a few hours, we can take tea and compare notes.”

_Besha. _Gersha had almost forgotten their appointment. The tone of his colleague’s message had been uncharacteristically curt, as if he had something serious to discuss. Whatever it was, Gersha had more than enough to deal with right now.

Ignoring the fierce chill, he caught his husband’s hand and clasped it tight. “I trust you to do what’s best for all of us. You, me, Vera, and . . . _your child_,” he mouthed.

Tilrey raised Gersha’s hand to his lips in that former gesture of obeisance that now expressed only affection. “Don’t fear, sweetheart. I know what I’m doing.”

***

He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, only that it had to be done very carefully.

Vera Linnett ushered him into her apartment. She wore gray from head to toe, the modest bulge of her pregnancy hidden under a loose shirt whose tails fell to her thighs. Her expression betrayed no emotion—until she registered his limp and the cane. “What happened?”

“A minor accident on the trip.” Tilrey couldn’t imagine beginning to explain. “It was fractured, but the doctor says I’ll regain full function.”

“That’s dreadful. I didn’t know it was going to be dangerous!” She reached for his arm, but he shook his head. Looking helpless, Vera went to the white couch and stood as if offering to help him seat himself. Tilrey would have preferred the armchair, but he settled and propped the cane up, ignoring her attempts at assistance.

Vera sat at the other end of the couch. Apparently there wouldn’t be any tea to smooth over this conversation. Her face had gone blank again, but her hazel eyes glittered. Fear, anger, even a muted happy excitement? It was hard to tell.

So soon after his visit to Malsha, Tilrey was acutely aware that she had her grandfather’s high cheekbones and wide-set eyes. Would the old sociopath be unsettled if he knew about this conversation? Would he see the pregnancy as Tilrey’s long-delayed revenge on him and his family? Or would he find it funny—an ironic twist of fate? With Malsha, you never knew.

Tilrey did know, though, that he hadn’t meant this to happen. Engendering a new human being to score a point against an old enemy was the sort of twisted thing Malsha himself might do_. But not me. Never me._

Vera just looked at him. “I am having our child,” she said in a flat voice. “If I had known earlier on—I don’t know. But our son is due in seven ten-days, Tilrey.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Then tears blurred Tilrey’s vision. He’d known for the past four days, but only now did it seem real—_my son_. _Our son_. He felt an unexpected, almost shocking tenderness for this still-forming human being. In his mind’s eye, he saw a boy with Vera’s halo of red hair and his own tall frame and all the combined cleverness and volatility of the Linnetts and his own stock—a grandson to show to his mother.

Except this boy wasn’t supposed to exist.

Vera was blinking away tears, too, but her voice stayed firm. “I can have my marriage to Tollsha annulled tomorrow morning at the Records office. Once he knows, he won’t pose any objection. Then we’ll need to marry as swiftly as possible.”

Shock dried Tilrey’s eyes. “Us? Marry? But that would mean—”

“I would have to be Lowered first. Yes.” She looked straight at him, her voice calm. Clearly she’d practiced this conversation, anticipating his objections.

Tilrey realized his mouth was hanging open and shut it. In mapping the possible avenues of action, he’d barely even considered this one. Now all he could do was blurt the obvious: “But you’re—you’re a Linnett, Fir’n. Becoming my equal, marrying me—I was your grandfather’s kettle boy. No one in Redda would talk of anything else for years. The dishonor would have repercussions for your whole family for generations to come.”

Vera smiled with a strange complacency through her flowing tears. “I didn’t know you were so conservative, Tilrey. I expected this sort of reaction from my mother, not you.”

“It’s not—I’m not!” He wanted to shoot to his feet and pace off the agitation, but the damned limp kept him chained to the couch. “_I_ don’t see it as a dishonor. But I know Redda, and I know high-named Upstarts. I know how closely they guard their privileges, their legacies.”

“So do I. And _I _am the one with everything to lose.” Her smile was brittle now. “I thought you might welcome this solution.”

“I do!” He couldn’t keep his hands still, knotting and worrying them. How was he supposed to refuse a gesture like this? He wasn’t. He was supposed to be grateful. “I mean, I—I’m honored that you would want to sacrifice so much to make our son legitimate. Of course. I want him to grow up in an honorable household with two loving parents, not to be a shameful secret. But . . .”

Vera’s face had hardened. “I know you don’t care for me. I wouldn’t expect you actually to live with me. Is that what worries you?”

He _had _been blunt about not loving her, hadn’t he? His feelings hadn’t changed, yet now the words he remembered saying stung him. “I’m so sorry, Vera.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Tilrey. I’m trying to be honest, the way you were the last time we saw each other. I was hurt at first, but after a while, I knew you were right. I’ve never really known you. I have always . . . taken advantage of your generosity.” Her voice wavered.

“I didn’t mean it that way.” Tilrey’s voice faltered, too, because he had.

They were silent for a moment. Vera gazed into space, her tears dried, as if she’d ascended to a serene higher plane. “I hope you don’t think this was anything but an accident,” she said at last. “I slept with you a single time after discontinuing my protection, yes. Based on the instructions, the percentages, I didn’t think I could be fertile that day. I take full responsibility. But it was carelessness, not intent.”

“I understand.” Against his will, he was being pulled back into the magnetic orbit of the drama she always seemed to generate. But was it really against his will? He’d chosen to come to her bed every time.

“What’s wrong, then?” Vera asked. “You could marry me and still live with Gersha, if that’s what you want. _Is _that what you want?”

She wanted him to say no. She wanted him to jump at the chance to leave Gersha and spend his life with her. Tilrey bit down on the inside of his cheek. He’d promised Gersha he’d tell the truth.

And Gersha had been right to make him promise. During his kettle boy days, Tilrey had developed a habit of keeping his feelings, and particularly his affections, to himself, knowing they could be used against him. He’d confessed his love in front of the council of the Southern Hearth, and then in front of the Duke of Bettevy, but those were rebels, exiles, foreigners. Nothing that happened in Harbour made any difference in Redda. Telling Upstarts, though—he didn’t know _how. _They would laugh; he would lose all credibility. Besha seemed to understand his bond with Gersha intuitively; he hadn’t had to spell it out. But Vera . . .

“Is it Gersha?” Her voice was soft now, almost pitying. “Would he be angry if you married? He’s always seemed reasonable to—”

“No! It’s not Gersha. It’s me. I mean, it’s Gersha _and _me.” Tilrey forced himself to look her in the eye. It would be so easy to tell her Gersha was a jealous, possessive lover, but he couldn’t lie that way anymore. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but I . . . love him. I consider myself bonded to him in a way that’s, well, like marriage. He feels the same way.”

Vera reddened. “Truly? I guess I always assumed—”

“What everybody assumes. That I’m using him or he’s using me, or both.” Tilrey looked down, his own cheeks warming. “If you thought that, I don’t blame you. Now you know.”

They were quiet again, Tilrey staring longingly at the half-shuttered, still-bright windows. Oh, to be anywhere but here.

Then Vera said, “Thank you for telling me. I could tell Gersha loved you—that’s why I wasn’t afraid to send the message to him. I knew he’d pass it to you without reading it, or if he did read it, he wouldn’t tell anyone else. But I didn’t know . . . that it went both ways.”

_Because I don’t love you, you thought I was totally unfeeling. _Tilrey stared past her, knowing any words he spoke would be bitter. The truth was, even he hadn’t been sure this thing he felt was love until it nearly killed him. When Gersha found out about the True Hearth and turned away from him, his feelings had become a sickness, ravaging his will, stealing the light from the world. And later, when Gersha tenderly cared for him in the Southern Hearth and called him “love” again, those same feelings gave him a rush like blood returning to every limb at once, leaving him dizzy and intoxicated.

“Yes,” he repeated softly. “I love him.”

“But,” Vera said in a stronger voice, “I don’t see why that’s an impediment to our marriage. People marry for practical reasons all the time. They live with the partners they prefer. It works out.”

“But this _isn’t _practical, Vera! This is the exact opposite of any possible Oslov definition of practical!” He knew he shouldn’t be angry at her for making a gesture she considered an honor to him, but someone had to stay in touch with reality. “Don’t you see? You would be a laughingstock. A cautionary tale. Our son would be a pariah to every single Upstart—to your own family. And worse, he’d be rejected by Laborers, too. By his peers.”

Vera made a dismissive sound, as if to say Laborers’ opinions didn’t matter, and that inflamed Tilrey further.

“Do you know what a bunch of small-minded, judgmental gossips Reddan Laborers can be?” Images flitted through his head—his fellow kettle boys, strangers giving him sidelong glances in the dorm, that hateful Bors Dartán. Tilrey had never spent much time with his own kind in Redda, but his friend Bror had told him how they jockeyed for position, fighting for Upstarts’ favor and quick to exploit their peers’ humiliations.

For the smart young Drudges who attended school with children of Upstart birth, it was even worse. He’d heard stories of vulnerable kids being beaten, bullied, exploited by their supposed betters in unsavory ways. None of it was supposed to happen, of course, but many adults turned a blind eye. “Our son would be tormented, Vera. Whispers would follow him on the street, in the caf, everywhere.”

“Who cares about gossip?”

“You’ve never _had _to care. But you’d learn.” Then he realized what she must be thinking—why she was so sanguine about all this. “Are you hoping you could get our son Raised when he turns eighteen? Don’t be naïve, Vera. His test scores and hard work wouldn’t matter. Nothing would matter but the shame of his existence. The authorities would make an example of him to punish you for Lowering yourself. Every time they looked at him, they’d see defiance of the system.”

She was starting to look a little shaken. “You can’t know all that for sure.”

“No, but I do know one thing.” He was practically shouting, but it was too late to backtrack. She needed to _know. _“If our son thinks he has even a chance of being Raised, and he knows it’ll please you, he’ll do anything to get it.” He could imagine it all too easily. “And do you know what he’ll do then? He’ll suck up to powerful Upstarts. He’ll try to ingratiate himself. He’ll internalize everything they tell him. He’ll become a—a—”

_Like I was. _But he lacked a word for what Upstarts had made out of him, and any of the inadequate words he could use would shock her. “Believe me, if we do what you’re suggesting, our son will come to hate us for it.”

Vera stared at him, her face drained of blood. Tilrey was suddenly grateful for his limp; it had restrained him from going over and trying to shake some sense into her. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her; it was just too frustrating.

He lowered his eyes and said almost meekly, “I’m only telling you how things are. If you want to be a Drudge in this city, you need to know what’s waiting for you. You need to be sure you want it.”

She spoke at last, quietly. “I want you to be wrong.”

“So do I. But you’ve seen things, haven’t you? At school.”

Vera slid over on the couch and extended her hands to him. He took them. She was trembling, and he stroked her knuckles without thinking, trying to calm her or himself, he wasn’t sure.

Finally she said, “But what else could we do?”

Wasn’t it obvious? He ran his thumbs over her palms. “Just stay silent. Let Tollsha think the boy is his.”

Her fingers turned to claws. “I thought you hated Tollsha.”

“No, _you _hate Tollsha. And you hate my history with Tollsha.” He ignored the dig of her nails, holding her fast. “But you’re going to have to put that aside for our son’s sake. Give him the Linnett name. Think of him as yours alone.”

Vera went abruptly limp in his grasp. “I can’t.”

“I know you see it as dishonorable, but do it for him, Vera. For his future.”

“No, you don’t understand. I literally can’t. You call me naïve, but you don’t know much about Upstart marriage customs, do you?” She freed her hands and gave them a little shake. “I’m expected to _show _Tollsha the genetic profile, with all our parents present. It’s supposed to reaffirm the bond of trust between us, proving to everyone the child is his.”

Tilrey hadn’t realized high-named Upstarts could still surprise him. “That sounds like the opposite of trust to me.”

“Yes. But there it is.”

“It’s easy enough to doctor the profile. I can find someone to—”

“No.” The word was granite. “I won’t stoop to that kind of deception. And if we were found out—if anyone ever found out and held that secret over our son’s head—no, Tilrey. You can’t expect that of me. I’m willing to be Lowered, but I’d rather die than be faithless.”

_Damn these people and their fucking honor. _“Even faithless to a man you despise?”

Vera shook her head, pain distorting her features. “How I feel about Tollsha doesn’t matter. It’s the principle. If you won’t marry me, I’ll annul this marriage and put ‘unknown’ on the birth record where my son’s father’s name should be.”

She clearly meant that to hurt him, and it did, but he tried not to show it. “That would be even worse than if you married me.”

Vera held his gaze. They both knew a fatherless child was an unpardonable affront to the obsessive recordkeeping of Oslov society—the worst kind of “misbirth.” “So that’s your only suggestion?” she asked. “Lie?”

Tilrey had one more idea, but he’d considered it only as a last resort. He braced himself, knowing how she’d react. “In Redda, everything is a scandal. But there are ways to hide things _outside_ Redda. I know of a certain respected high Upstart whose Laborer girlfriend is raising his bastard son in Thurskein. When the boy’s of age, the father will probably use his influence to get him Raised and bring him here, and no one will be the wiser. The Upstart will simply be considered the boy’s patron and mentor.”

“That’s shameful,” Vera snapped.

“Maybe. But if you keep a secret in Thurskein, it’s unlikely to be revealed in Redda.”

She looked at him as if he’d proposed growing wings and flying over the sea. “That little trick wouldn’t work for me. I’m giving birth to this child. I can’t very well pretend he’s not mine.”

“What if you could? I mean, yes, it’s trickier.” Tilrey forced himself to hold her gaze, swaying slightly with the effort of keeping his voice steady. He’d made risky plans before, whatever it took to keep him and Gersha and their secrets safe. He’d outwitted Ranek Egil. He’d neutralized the threat from Bors Dartán—sort of. He’d brought them both home from Harbour free and clear, with promises of the Duke’s cooperation. He could do this.

“The birth couldn’t happen here, of course,” he said, his brain working fast. “You’d have to fake an unfortunate accident. But after that—what if we could present our son as mine and _not_ yours?”

Vera’s face was dangerously blank. “I don’t follow.”

“I have a good friend in Thurskein who wants a child.” Tilrey hadn’t planned to pull Dal into this, hadn’t asked her permission, but now he had no choice. “Her long-time partner has a husband and children of her own—it’s complicated. They would make excellent guardians. If I were to marry my friend—Dal—she could raise our son in Thurskein as her own, with her partner’s help. Her friends and family would know he wasn’t biologically hers, of course. But they have no connections in Redda, so it wouldn’t matter. They’d assume I impregnated someone who was otherwise committed; they wouldn’t care who. My mother—”

Vera had risen to her feet. She cut him off. “You want me to fake a miscarriage so you can give my child to a stranger to raise?”

“I know how it sounds.”

Her face told him he _couldn’t_ know how it felt to imagine having her child ripped from her and handed over to a Laborer. Her face said she despised him for even having the idea. Tilrey blanched under that look, but he persisted: “If we did it that way, in secret, you’d have a better chance of Raising your son. You’d still wield all the influence of a Councillor.”

“And for his first eighteen years, I would never see him.” Vera closed her arms protectively over the child inside her. “Tilrey, we’ve talked enough. I think it’s time you left.”

Her tone had become her grandfather’s, stern and dangerously final. Tilrey’s first instinct was to obey, and he reached for his cane, but he didn’t rise. He couldn’t let her throw two lives away. “I know how this sounds, Vera. I know you hate me. But please, consider—”

“_Consider_ it?” Her face twisted. “Maybe what you really want me to consider is all the ways _your _life would be worse if you married me. You’d still have Gersha, but the other Councillors wouldn’t trust you anymore, would they? You wouldn’t be able to play your little political games with them. Whatever you’re doing in the Council, trying to push reform, that would be over. You’d be just another Drudge with a Drudge wife and a Drudge kid. You couldn’t tolerate that, could you?”

Tilrey’s grip on the cane tightened, his knuckles whitening. Everything she was saying was true—and more. Married to her, he would lose his power to help the True Hearth. “You haven’t been listening to me. Our son—”

“No, this is about you. Tilrey, you want _power. _You pretend you don’t, but you want it more than anything, just like my grandfather did.”

_Not just power_. He wanted so much more that he couldn’t confess to her—but the words still struck home, winding him like a blow in the gut. She was right. With his plans and schemes, he was more like Malsha than he’d ever imagined he could be. She had an undeniable claim on him, and their son had a stronger one. But he couldn’t give up the cause of justice for all Oslovs.

And he couldn’t let her raise their son alone, without naming a father. The boy would grow up shamed and stunted and resentful in ways Vera simply wasn’t capable of understanding—not yet, anyway. She’d grown up so sheltered, just like Gersha. How could she imagine?

And so, telling himself he wasn’t being selfish, Tilrey reached for the last weapon in his arsenal. “What about your brother?”

“What about him?” Her face was hard with surprise.

“You told me he’s the whole reason you want to be a Councillor. With that kind of power, you could easily get Valgund out of moral rehab and bring him to live in your villa in the Southern Range, where he might be happy. If you Lower yourself, what happens to him?”

Vera stared straight at him, her eyes turned to iron. “Get out.”

Tilrey hauled himself to his feet. He winced at the pain in his ankle, not bothering to hide it. He could feel her rage massed above him like a snow squall about to break. “Hate me. I deserve it. But you can’t deny what I’m saying.”

Vera pointed at the door, the gesture as eloquent as any Council speech. “You’ve lost the right to be in my presence—_our _presence. You aren’t the person I thought you were. You can’t seem to propose anything that isn’t absurd or—or—obscene.”

“Your son being raised in Thurskein by a Laborer? That’s your definition of obscene?”

“I’m his _mother_.”

The words sent a foreboding shudder through Tilrey, but he said, “It’s not what I want, either. It might be the best for _him_.”

“You’ve made yourself clear. Out.”

She advanced on him, all the pride of the Linnetts in her carriage. He went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote and rewrote this chapter because I wanted to give both Tilrey and Vera their due. I'm all too aware that Tilrey doesn't come off too well in this scene. I didn't want to downplay or excuse his behavior. But I feel like his response makes sense for him.
> 
> I also don't want Vera, naive as she is, to be the female love interest who gets shunted aside to make way for the M/M relationship. I want her to be a strong character in her own right. That's why she ends up calling Tilrey out a bit here. :) The more I write Vera, the more my thinking about her evolves, and I hope she'll evolve over the course of this story, too.
> 
> Thank you so much for following these characters with me! <3 Next week, we'll see what Gersha and Besha have to say to each other...


	3. The Other Talk

Gersha arrived home to find Besha’s car waiting for him, gently vibrating beside the landing platform. “You seem eager to see me,” he said as his colleague opened the door, keeping his tone light. “What’s the occasion?”

Ever since receiving Besha’s message in Harbour, Gersha had been raking his memory for the details of their last conversation. Besha had wanted to know why Gersha and Tilrey were separated. He kept poking and prodding like the nosy bastard he was, unsatisfied by Gersha’s explanations. The encounter had ended with Gersha saying something stupid, he suspected—but what?

For Gersha, at least, the stay in Harbour had swept away the details of the dark interval when they were apart. From the other side of their reunion, he regarded that part of his past with a shiver, as if he’d been trudging through a fog bank. He was in the sun again, and whatever foolish thing he’d said or done in response to Besha’s curiosity, surely he could control the damage.

Besha was acting odd, though. Instead of returning the smile, he walked straight up to Gersha and took him by the elbows.

A _hug_? True, they’d done a lot more than hug on occasion. But friendly embraces had never been in Besha’s repertoire. Gersha was relieved when his colleague kept him at arm’s length, scrutinizing him. “You look different. Harbour did something to your skin.”

Gersha laughed, trying to relax as Besha released him. Together they walked to the door of the coldroom, shielding their faces from the wind. “My skin doesn’t tan. I had to slather on a cream to keep from burning.”

“No, it’s not actually your skin. There’s something different in your eyes. _Around_ your eyes.” Besha pointed to the outer corner of his own right eye. “A new line right there. You look weathered.”

“Well, thank you.” Gersha pressed the back of his hand to the sensor and stepped into the warm enclosure. _I should look weathered. I spent days being kept by a tribe of ruthless killers in a cage hanging from a tree. _There was so much he couldn’t tell people, even his closest allies. Albertine Linnett, who herself knew only a censored version, had made him promise to keep all his experiences in Resurgence classified.

“I didn’t mean it that way.” Besha pulled off his outergear, his speech uncharacteristically halting. “It makes you look distinguished, actually. Mature. You may get more respect in the Council chamber now.”

Gersha snorted. “The ones who don’t already respect me never will.”

His mind was still with Tilrey, wanting to know what he and Vera were saying. He longed to be at Tilrey’s side, even if it wasn’t his place—but how could it not be his place? A slender tendril of annoyance grew inside him. Why had Tilrey driven this rift between them right when they were united at last?

But no, he couldn’t think that way. Tilrey hadn’t meant it to happen, and surely Vera hadn’t, either.

To hide his turmoil, Gersha made a show of being a good host. With Besha settled in the living room, he went into the kitchen and brewed the tea, taking the time to use synth-butter and arrange the tray in the elegant way he’d learned from Tilrey. In the Duke’s palace, he’d begun to appreciate a different way of life—a slower, less work-focused one where one treated one’s friends to fine food and drink, beautifully presented.

Besha didn’t seem to notice the presentation. He was jiggling his knee and playing with the hem of his tunic.

Gersha sat opposite him, trying to look as calm as Tilrey always did in these situations. “Now, what’s so urgent?”

Besha sipped his tea. A delicate furrow formed between his flaxen brows.

“Something’s wrong. Is it Davita? Or the amendment to the budget bill? Did you have to call in favors?”

“No, no.” Besha made a dismissive gesture. “You and Tilrey—you’ve patched it all up, huh?”

They’d been back in the Sector only a day, but trust Besha to read their body language. “I think our time abroad put everything in better perspective,” Gersha conceded.

Here was where Besha should have replied with a crack about make-up sex, doing his best to deflate Gersha’s dignity. But he didn’t smile. “You said something before you left . . . about secrets. About whether Davita would stay with me if she knew mine.”

_Oh shit. _Gersha remembered now. What had possessed him to say something so boneheaded? His misery must have sucked out his common sense.

“I don’t know why, but I couldn’t forget it. So,” Besha said, still in that weirdly hesitant way, “I started to wonder. Tilrey knows a lot of people’s secrets. Does _he _have secrets?”

Gersha felt as if he were watching their conversation from a distance, perhaps from outside the window. At the same time, everything was too present, his own breathing alarmingly loud. The distant part of him knew what he had to do: treat this as a joke. If he gave the insinuations the slightest weight, if he let Besha see they disturbed him, then Besha would go for blood. But the close-up part of him wouldn’t stop panicking: _Tilrey’s a traitor. I’m a traitor. He knows._

He gazed at the distant puppet that was himself and forced its mouth to form an unconcerned smile. “I thought we were allies. Suddenly you’re digging up dirt on us again?”

Besha leaned in, eyes focused hard on him. “I remembered that odd little incident, years ago, when you sent Tilrey to your friend Egil to be interrogated.”

“I explained to you all about—”

“Oh, I know, Gersha. I remember your explanations. But I went back to my old contact in Int/Sec and asked if there’d been any updates to Tilrey’s file since then. Turns out, there had.”

Gersha realized he was spilling tea in his lap. _Steady_, said his distant self. “Really?”

Seven years ago, Besha had practically crowed with triumph as he backed Gersha into a corner, hoping to extort favors from them both. There wasn’t a trace of triumph in his voice now, and somehow that iced Gersha’s blood even more. Besha wasn’t excited by this confrontation. He dreaded it.

“I found a very thorough report from a certain young analyst named Bors Dartán,” Besha said. “I imagine you’re familiar with him.”

“The Raised young man.” Gersha forced himself to raise the tumbler to his lips again. _Steady_. What Bors Dartán knew wasn’t enough by itself to convict a Councillor and his secretary of Dissidence. Together with what Besha himself already knew, though, it might be.

“I take it you’ve seen Dartán’s report, too.”

“Yes.” Gersha tried a tone of light scolding. “Bors Dartán is obsessed with Tilrey. A few ten-days before we left for Harbour, he came to my office to present his report to me. Something absurd about Tilrey having frequent meetings with Ranek Egil in a vacant building.” _Absurd_—was that overkill?

“Egil the exile.” Besha tucked his legs under him, the casualness reminding Gersha disturbingly of the times Besha had made himself very comfortable in his bed. “Doesn’t it seem odd to you that Tilrey would meet regularly with the man who interrogated him for days and basically tortured him?”

_Indeed_. Gersha remembered his last encounter with Ranek in the Southern Hearth. For Ranek, for Celinda, for Peony, for everyone in the secret shirker settlement, he must proceed so very carefully now.

An explanation flew into his head. “You may remember that Tilrey has certain—how do I say this? Proclivities.” He put on a concerned expression. “Sometimes he enjoys being hurt, and I don’t like to hurt him. You would know, because these days, I hear, he satisfies those needs with your wife.”

“Sure. But what does that have to do with Egil?” Besha’s scowl deepened. “Are you saying they were . . .?”

Gersha tried to look like a lover who was doing his best to be broadminded. He didn’t look forward to telling Tilrey about this lie, even if it was worthy of Tilrey’s own deviousness. “Tilrey admitted it to me. Ranek himself didn’t really have sexual feelings toward anyone, but he did enjoy controlling people. That’s why he became an interrogator in the first place. He enjoyed controlling Tilrey during their little sessions, and Tilrey enjoyed being controlled.” He sighed. “You won’t mention this to Rishka, will you? He wouldn’t want you to know.”

Besha looked shaken, but not convinced. “Why would Tilrey go to Egil for that? That was before he knew Davita, but _I_ could dominate him, and he knows it.”

“Maybe he didn’t want that from you.” Gersha took pleasure in saying it, still feeling a bit of the old jealousy. “Maybe he didn’t like anything that reminded him of being a kettle boy.”

“He’d rather be reminded of being a prisoner?” Besha unfolded himself and got up. “Besides, there’s more. This Dartán fellow tailed Tilrey and saw him meeting regularly with a couple of friends, Laborers, in the same vacant building. Put that together with Tilrey’s early history—the shirker meeting in Thurskein—and it doesn’t look good, Gersha. It looks like a pattern of questionable associations.”

While Besha paced, Gersha tried to use all the power of his breeding to project serene confidence and gentle sarcasm_. _“You’re suggesting Tilrey’s a shirker? What do you propose doing, then? Hauling him in for another interrogation?”

“I didn’t say that.” Besha’s voice was growing ragged. “I’m just saying it doesn’t look good, Gersha, and I wish you’d be fucking honest with me. Dartán presented his report to you, and suddenly, a few days later, you and Tilrey were living apart and barely talking. Oh yes, I checked all the dates. I think you didn’t expect what was in that report. I think you didn’t like it.”

“Well, of course I didn’t like it. Why would I be happy to hear my lover confess he’d been having . . . encounters with my best friend who turned out to be a traitor? Even though it all happened years ago, I was upset, yeah. That’s why I made Tilrey leave. But during our time abroad, we—”

“Talked it out and ended up more in love than ever. I know.” Besha was staring straight at him. “Gersha, Tilrey came to me—to Davita and me—after you threw him out. He was fucking miserable. I don’t believe this was just about his kinks. You must’ve at least suspected he and Egil were doing something besides that.”

The more Gersha protested and denied, the deeper the hole got. “I can see which conclusions you’ve jumped to,” he said. “Why don’t you say straight out what you plan to do next?”

_How much _dare_ you do? _He didn’t need to remind Besha that Tilrey held a sword suspended above his head. If they were traitors, so was he.

The knowledge was visible in the bitter twist of Besha’s mouth. “What _can _I do? I’ve already tried to control the damage. After I read through Dartán’s report, I grilled him on the particulars. Then I did some more digging. I found out he’s already presented that damned report to Director Gelmedyn _and_ Niko Karishkov, and they don’t give a rat’s ass about it. I followed their lead and scolded Dartán for wasting everyone’s time with absurd accusations against the secretary of a powerful Councillor who’s on the Int/Sec committee.”

Gersha had tensed when Besha mentioned Dartán sharing the report, but now he breathed again. “So. Dartán is nobody, and nobody’s interested in his allegations. What’s the problem?”

Besha’s pacing had brought him behind Gersha. He gripped the back of the couch with both hands. “The problem is if the allegations are _true._”

“How many times can I—”

“I hear what you’re telling me, Gersha. But before you left, you asked how Davita would react if she _knew_ about me. That’s what I can’t forget.”

Adrenaline surged through Gersha’s veins as he remembered Besha’s secret. He’d lived with it for the past seven years and thought of it primarily as an act of treason against Oslov, a breach of military and diplomatic security. In Harbour, though, everything had changed.

“You _shouldn’t_ forget it,” he said. “When you turned over those launch codes to Malsha Linnett, you committed an act of mass murder. Colonel Thibault of Resurgence used them to decimate an entire region known as Michigan, then turned around and blamed the attack on Oslov. Did you even know that?”

Besha’s sallow face went crimson. “That was years ago. I had no idea what the bastard would do when I gave him a backdoor to the system. He was calling in a favor, that’s all.”

Gersha stood to face his colleague. He was shuddering with rage and disgust, but why hide it? What Besha had done was unimaginably worse than any form of Dissidence. “That’s your excuse? You knew Linnett didn’t have Council authorization to attack anybody.” After the sustained tension of the conversation, it felt good to let loose. “Do you _care_ what you did, Besha? All the suffering you caused? I’ve never seen you show a shred of contrition.”

Besha didn’t shrink, his eyes glittering with matching anger. “How can I care about something I’m not directly responsible for? Anyway, you should be glad I did it, because it’s given you a way to control me. And you’re trying to change the subject. You’re bringing up ancient history because I’m _right_.”

Gersha’s voice was raw with rage. “Is it ancient history to the people of Michigan? Whose families you killed? Whose fertile fields you turned into an irradiated wasteland?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know, because they’re not Oslovs and they don’t speak our language and they don’t fucking matter, okay?” Besha was practically spitting with his own rage. “Until today I didn’t know enough to find them on a map, and I preferred it that way.”

“Because you’re a sociopath.”

“Call me names if it makes you feel better. The point is, none of this has anything to do with you and Tilrey. With you covering for Tilrey. You are, aren’t you?”

Gersha was way past the point of covering up anything. It was all he could do not to throw his Dissidence in Besha’s face and inform him that his callousness was a symptom of everything that was fatally wrong with Oslov. _They’re not Oslovs, and they don’t matter._

Choose anyone in this city at random, Upstart or Laborer, and they’d probably say the same. How had his people come to define themselves as the only people in the world who mattered? Was Oslov too rotten to be remade?

For the sake of the Southern Hearth, Gersha confessed nothing. But he did draw himself up with dignity and say, “I’ve been covering for _you _for the past seven years, Besha. And I’ll continue to cover for you because it’s politically expedient, as ashamed as it makes me.”

Besha sneered in the fierce way Gersha remembered from their school days. “Funny. I feel the same.”

“Good. I’d rather not look at your face for a while. I don’t want to be reminded that I’ve had a mass murderer’s tongue down my throat. Would you do me a favor and get the fuck out of my house?”

***

When Tilrey limped off the lift onto the parapet, Besha’s car was just leaving. He watched it power onto the grid and disappear into the whirling gray soup of early evening. Then he trudged into the coldroom and stripped off his outergear, each movement as slow and deliberate as if he were still fighting the storm. His bad leg was dead weight again, and his head felt like the sky outside—a chaos of crosscurrents.

Inside, Gersha took one look at him and came over to help him onto the couch. Tilrey didn’t shake him off. He clasped his husband’s hand and pulled Gersha down beside him, grateful for the warmth.

They touched foreheads, and then Gersha pulled back and scrutinized him. “I’ve got the kettle on,” he said in a small voice. “I’ll need to get up in a second.”

“You’re shaping up to be an excellent kettle boy.” But joking wasn’t going to make this go away. Tilrey pressed his forehead to Gersha’s again, wanting to be close but not to kiss just yet. Kissing was an escape. He nuzzled Gersha’s cheek.

“Rishka.” Gersha barely murmured his name, but the two syllables expressed more: _It didn’t go well?_

Tilrey shook his head, his face buried in Gersha’s curls. “She wants to Lower herself, to make it all official. She won’t hear of deceiving Tollsha. And . . . she didn’t like my input. She threw me out.”

Gersha pulled back. To Tilrey’s surprise, he was smiling. “My conversation ended in a similar fashion.” Then, ruefully: “Only I did the throwing out. Rishka, I’m afraid I made a mess of things.”

“Tell me.” Most problems involving Besha were solvable, and Tilrey craved a problem he could solve just now. The kettle whistled, though, and Gersha dashed into the kitchen.

When he returned, he arranged everything with great care, placing a steaming tumbler in Tilrey’s hands. “Lapsang souchong. You like that, don’t you?”

It had been Malsha’s favorite, but yes, Tilrey liked it. He took a sip of the smoky brew and let the steam condense on his face and trickle down it like tears. It would take time, but he would figure this out. He would find a solution that wasn’t cruel to Vera or their son. He would, he would—

He forced himself to focus on what Gersha was saying. It was no great surprise: Gersha had slipped, and Besha had put two and two together. He had talked to Bors Dartán.

When the story was over, Tilrey interlaced his fingers with Gersha’s and pressed palm to palm. “This was bound to happen sooner or later. It’s not good news, but it just makes us even—he has something on us; we have something on him. And Besha doesn’t give a damn about treason. He’ll keep quiet unless we provoke him.”

Gersha laughed weakly. “That’s the thing, love. I—well, I may have provoked him. I couldn’t bear to see him riding his moral high horse.”

He explained, while Tilrey sipped his tea and stroked his husband’s palm. Gradually his thoughts were settling into less frantic patterns. This was a logistical problem, nothing new. Gersha had been hotheaded like the high-born idealist he was. Tilrey would fix things.

That was his goal in life: to fix things, to make things work. To serve a good cause. Whatever Vera said, he was _not_ power hungry. He couldn’t imagine himself at the head of anything, giving orders. He only wanted to spare his son the sort of life he’d had before Gersha—sucking up to Upstarts, sucking off Upstarts, pouring their tea, smiling at them. When you were an ambitious Drudge in Redda, you didn’t have to be a kettle boy to find yourself doing all those things.

“Shh,” he said as Gersha’s tone became fretful. “Your reaction wasn’t exactly strategic, but there’s no reason to panic. I’ll talk to Besha tomorrow.”

“You think you can make him forget what I said?” Gersha’s face contorted. “Personally, I don’t _want _him to forget. I don’t know if I can go on having civil conversations with Besha, much less . . . the stuff we were doing before.”

Tilrey raised Gersha’s hand to his own face, stroked the knuckles across his cheek. “Sometimes we have strange bedfellows, and even abhorrent ones. That’s the way in politics.”

“But the way he was going on—like he was shocked. Like _we_ were the ones who’d killed people.”

Tilrey met Gersha’s eyes, clear and sea-green and alive with self-righteousness. “Did he make you feel guilty about your new affiliation, sweetheart?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“I know, but it would be natural. You’ve been raised to see yourself as the model citizen. It can’t be easy for you to carry a secret like this. Did Besha remind you of that?”

Gersha twitched and lowered his eyes, the lashes coal-black against pale cheeks. “Maybe. A little. But I know what I saw in Harbour, and I know what I pledged. Besha can’t change that. I just . . . find it hard to bear his scorn.”

“I understand.” Tilrey released Gersha’s hand. Cutting ties with Besha wasn’t an option, but he’d give Gersha time to mellow on that point. He stroked Gersha’s cheek. “I can deal with Besha. Trust me.”

Gersha leaned into the touch, his eyelids closing. “Okay. But if you’re going to do that, maybe I should try talking to Vera.”

Tilrey tensed again; he’d been trying to forget his failure, just for now. “Not a good idea. I told her about . . . us, but I didn’t tell her you knew. She’d be mortified.”

“I know. But if we could get past that, maybe I could set her mind at rest. I think Vera and I have some things in common beyond our upbringing. We’re both touchy, and we’re both inexorably drawn to you.”

“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t talk to her.”

“No, but listen! I used to have romantic notions of ‘saving’ you. From what I gather, so does she. Maybe I can talk some sense into her.”

“Because you’re so sensible.”

Before Gersha could reply, Tilrey drew him into a kiss. Their lips barely touched at first, but Tilrey let his wander from Gersha’s cheek to his chin and back to his mouth, exploring each spot with his fingertips and tongue. He felt no urgency tonight, only a need to be close.

He caught Gersha’s earlobe between his teeth, and Gersha moaned, pressing hard against him. “I want you in my arms tonight,” he breathed. “The way it was _there_, in that narrow bed in the dorm room high in that new-smelling building, with the forest outside and the sunlight on the wall. I want to remember.”

Tilrey hadn’t planned for this to go anywhere, but when he slipped an exploratory hand under Gersha’s tunic, he was pleased to find a hard bulge there. Another easy problem to solve. He could give Gersha this simple comfort the same way Gersha had given him lapsang souchong. He would make Gersha writhe and moan and cry out, and then they’d rest together in the big, soft bed and try to forget what had happened today.

He worked the stiff organ through the fabric, murmuring in his husband’s ear, “Promise me you won’t talk to Vera, at least not yet. I need time to think before I approach her again.”

Gersha nodded, his mouth opening in a soft gasp. “I trust you,” he managed.

_Should you? _Tilrey unhooked Gersha’s fly and grabbed a handful of hot, silky flesh, trying not to remember the distress on Vera’s face. She clearly felt he’d betrayed her.

What if he gave in and married her? He’d still live with Gersha, and at least he’d have some role in raising his son. The marriage could be enough of a scandal to put an end to his political efforts on behalf of reform, and probably to Gersha’s, too. Maybe it couldn’t be avoided. Surely they could be useful to the True Hearth in some other way.

_But. _He pumped Gersha’s cock hard, finding his rhythm again; he’d gotten lost in his thoughts. They’d made such progress in Harbour. The Duke was their ally now, ready to accept the prospect of an Oslov garrison with hand-picked personnel.

If Tilrey vanished into obscurity, he’d have to abandon that diplomatic project, losing his line of communication with the Southern Hearth and any chance to return to Harbour. The green everywhere, the cold lake, the horses—all that beauty and strangeness. Did his fear of losing it prove he was power-hungry? Maybe. But the world was so much bigger than Oslov, and now he’d seen it, he couldn’t let it go.

Gersha grunted hoarsely and rutted up into Tilrey’s hand, jerking him back to reality. He stilled the hand and moved in to kiss his husband—deeply and thoroughly this time, nipping the curved upper lip. “So impatient.” He slid off the couch and onto his knees.

Gersha whimpered. When Tilrey parted his knees and leaned in between them, he threw back his head and said, “For green’s sake, _please_.”

Tilrey took his time, dropping kisses in strategic places first. Vera felt further away now; only Gersha’s pulsing, urgent arousal was real.

If she wanted to be left alone to follow her conscience, maybe he should leave her alone. Maybe that was the only way to give her the respect and freedom she deserved. And if it meant never knowing his child—well, we all make sacrifices for the greater good. What sort of a dad would he make, anyway, with his dark past and his secrets? _He’d_ grown up with no father, and it hadn’t killed him.

And here was Gersha’s cock, warm and rock hard and begging to be buried in his mouth, in his throat. Poised to take it in, to tease it, to swallow it deep, he whispered, “You should always trust me, sweetheart. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now we turn to the other Very Delicate Situation that has developed regarding Besha. Very Delicate and Ethically Murky Situations is my alternate title for this whole leg of the saga. :) I really appreciate the reader input I've had into those quandaries, both on this story and previous ones—it helps me to think things out. Thank you! <3


	4. The Sleeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time to meet a new and rather different POV. The next chapter will get us back to our usual ones, with a return of Vera's POV as well. Thanks so much for reading! <3
> 
> p.s. I swear I don't have anything against Michigan. I've been there, it's nice! Somehow that was the first upper midwestern state that popped into my head, so I destroyed it. :)

“Have you ever seen the Flash?” Einara asked. “When one of your weapons explodes?”

Georg Binder rolled over in bed to face her. Einara had been at the Sanctioned Brothel for five years now, and he had been her patron for nearly as long. But it had taken her a while to learn that he was a nuclear scientist—even to learn what a nuclear scientist was—and longer still to ask him this question.

She kept her tone playful, provocative. Her accent was almost gone.

Binder’s bloodless lips curved, emphasizing the pleating of age. He reached out and tousled her hair. “The questions you ask, child!”

“Would you prefer if I talked less, Fir?” Einara was twenty-three. She hadn’t spoken much between ages of eighteen, when she’d been brought here, and twenty-one. She had nothing she wanted to say in those days, possibly nothing she _could _say, and most men didn’t seem to mind that at all.

“No, my darling. Of course not,” said Fir Binder fondly. “It’s just an odd question for a beautiful young girl to ask. Not a nice subject.”

He was one of her kindest, most considerate patrons, but Einara hated his kindness. It made her stomach go all soft and woozy when she preferred to focus. Sometimes she fantasized about slowly slitting his throat.

Maybe his fondness could be useful, though. “You test your weapons in the Wastes, though, don’t you, Fir?” she said. “When I was a child, out in the Wastes, people talked about it. They said there was a whole town your tests destroyed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart. We run tests out there, yes. But we don’t target inhabited areas, and we’ve never had any casualties.” Binder pressed closer to her as if hoping to change the subject to something more amorous. As if he thought she actually liked it when he was grunting on top of her. “You shouldn’t repeat the gossip of Outers. But to answer your question, yes, I have seen tests. Just remotely, of course.”

Einara’s whole body went tense as a bowstring. She held herself just out of his reach. _What about Michigan? _she wanted to ask. But it wasn’t time for that. An ignorant Outer girl from the Wastes wasn’t supposed to know what “Michigan” was. No one here could know where she came from.

Michigan was childhood. Michigan was rolling green fields and belts of woods and deep, cold lakes. They’d lived there when she was very small, in her paternal grandmother’s house. But after her dad died of fever, she and her mom and younger sister, Vangie, made the arduous move down to Ohio, where her mother’s people came from.

What did those names mean to Einara at age six? Nothing. They had to cross a “border” to reach Ohio—a couple of gawky young soldiers who stood on the edge of a cornfield and asked her mother questions . A few minutes of conversation, and they were through. Then came Ohio: more rolling fields, more brown furrows, more hard labor on her knees weeding collards and carrots. Ohio was part of Resurgence, which meant you’d sometimes see black-clad soldiers showing off their rifles in the town square, but life was otherwise pretty much the same. She had her own bedroom in her Great-Aunt Lara’s house, though it was more of a large closet.

The summer Einara turned twelve, Mom and Vangie returned to Michigan for a week’s visit with her father’s family. Einara stayed home with Great-Aunt Lara because she had the flu.

(She wasn’t Einara in those days, of course. But her real name was a secret she kept hidden now, sometimes even from herself.)

Fifteen days after Mom and Vangie departed, Great-Aunt Lara came into Einara’s room and said in a brittle voice, “I don’t want you to cry, girl. Crying never got dinner on the table.” After Einara promised solemnly not to cry, Great-Aunt Lara informed her that a “Flash” had fallen on Michigan and burnt everyone to cinders. Her mother and Vangie would live forever with the Lord of Light.

Einara did not cry. She shook. As soon as she could, she went and buried her face in the deep, cool grass behind the cistern and stayed there for a while. Great-Aunt Lara could say what she wanted about the Lord of Light, but Einara could feel a dark, ragged hole in the world. She would never be able to show her mother the winter muffler she was weaving, or catch fireflies with Vangie when they blinked in the tall grass, or teach her world geography from the crumbling atlas.

Her great-aunt liked to say Einara had an ungentle, unwomanly nature, and that was probably true. Less than twenty-four hours after the news came, she began to think of revenge.

Until now, she’d thought of Flashes as something half-mythical like the Great Hurricanes. Most of them had happened hundreds of years ago during the Collapse. The only nation still armed with Flashes was Oslov, the realm of snow and ice and unbelievers, which was far off at the top of the world, seemingly uninterested in the wars of this continent. No one alive had ever known anyone who died in a Flash—until now.

A few days later, as they were baking for the memorial, Einara asked Great-Aunt Lara why the Oslovs would want to attack Michigan with a Flash. The old woman made the sign of the Spark. “Who knows? They’re godless brutes. Pray they spare us.”

“But it was them?”

“Who else?”

Her aunt was useless, so Einara turned to the town librarian. She learned that Oslovs lived near the North Pole and spoke a harsh, ugly tongue. Many of them were tall and blond like Einara herself. They had stolen all the clever inventions of the Once-World, including the Light Web, and hoarded them for themselves. For that, their souls would be forever barred from salvation.

When Einara was thirteen, the black-clad soldiers lined up all the girls in her town and looked them over. She trembled, but she kept her head high. She was the blondest and the tallest, and they told her, “You’re coming with us. You’re going to meet Madam Colonel.”

Einara was not sorry to leave her scolding great-aunt and the back-breaking work in the garden and fields. She was bowled over by the Colonel’s palace, where she stayed as a guest for two whole nights. It covered two city blocks, all made of clean, smooth, impermeable concrete. The sheets there were starchy-clean and smelled of lavender, and there was an indoor privy.

Colonel Thibault wore a long white dress with a train that dragged behind her. Her hair was piled high on her head. She had an ageless, plump face and plump hands, very soft, and her kohl-lined eyes were mesmerizing.

She touched Einara with those hands and raised her chin and said in a lilting voice, “Perfect. Perfect. I’ve heard that your mother and sister were among the casualties of the vicious, unholy Flash attack on Michigan.”

Einara nodded, unable to speak for nerves. Could the supreme ruler of Resurgence, the renewer of Cleveland, really care about a farm girl’s grief?

“I am so sorry, my darling,” the Colonel said, swaying as she spoke, wafting clouds of intoxicating, spicy perfume. “You must despise those northern brutes, as I do.”

Einara wanted to ask the same question she’d asked Great-Aunt Lara and the librarian—_why?_— but she didn’t dare. “Michigan was a land of outlaws who resisted the rule of Resurgence, Madam Colonel,” she managed, having learned that much about politics from her aunt and the chatter in the town square. “Perhaps it was for the best.”

“No!” The Colonel shook her head with dramatic gravity, and a chill ran down Einara’s spine. “You must never think that, my child. We people of the south may have our little differences, but the sorrow of Michigan is my sorrow. The Oslovs are our common enemy. They’re trying to soften us, my child. They attack us here and there to test our responses, to gauge where best to begin their ground invasion. Make no mistake, they _will _invade us, sooner or later. They want our green, fertile land. And they have all the power of the Once-World.”

This speech made Einara go cold all over. The people who had devastated Michigan as a “test” would surely have no compunction about killing everyone else. Forcing herself to keep her head high, she whispered, “Can we stop them, Madam Colonel?”

A low laugh. “I like this question, my dear. You may be the right girl for the job I have in mind. Would you like to be a soldier of the Resurgence?”

Einara had never heard of a girl soldier. In her experience, soldiers were boys who strutted around with guns and made girls simper and cower. “Yes,” she said from her whole heart. “I want to fight Oslov.”

The Colonel laughed again and patted her on the back, then steered her toward a stern-faced woman in black robes. “This is Lady Gurwitch. She’ll explain the details of your mission. Just tell me one thing, young lady—can you lie? Are you willing to blend in with your enemies? To speak their language? To espouse their creeds? To endure their degradations?”

Einara nodded, though she didn’t know what “espouse” meant and didn’t like the sound of “degradations.” She was starting to feel foreboding about this mission, which apparently did not involve carrying a gun. But she could lie. She did it every time her great-aunt went on about the Light Web and the Lord of Light, lowering her eyes piously even though she didn’t believe a word.

“Good, good, my beauty,” the Colonel said. “Godspeed, then.”

That was the last time Einara saw Colonel Thibault. She spent grueling months training with Lady Gurwitch and five other girls from all over Resurgence, learning to speak Oslov and behave the way Oslovs behaved. There were tutorials in fighting, killing, and seduction. All the lessons were punishing, stretching long into the night. By the end, every one of the other girls had been cut or dropped out and returned to her family. Einara remained.

Her reward was an even more grueling sea voyage to the far north, followed by an overland trek during which she nearly froze to death. At last she reached the mountains—where, for the first time in her life, she met an actual Oslov.

She would have liked to kill him on the spot, but she was too cold and weak. Anyway, this Oslov was a traitor to his own people. It was his job to give her the final phase of her education. And he told her she was still doing everything wrong.

Back in the present, the old Upstart was kissing Einara, fondling her breasts, murmuring, “Sweet girl, my pretty little Outer.” For him, clearly, the discussion of nuclear testing was over.

Einara made her body pliable while her head turned to ice. She could pretend to enjoy it if she had to, but generally she did not have to. The work was nothing to her at this point—a source of faint irritation like mosquitos whining in the summer. Would she ever have summer again?

She’d been so naïve when she arrived at Artur Threindal’s mountain home with her fantasies about revenge and shedding Oslov blood. Revenge wasn’t about rage, she knew now. It was about patience.

Seven years ago, Artur had warned her, “You may begin to lose yourself the longer you live among us.” But Einara hadn’t lost herself, even if she had lost her name. She knew who she was and why she was here.

She’d come so far to reach this moment, this possibility of asking the only questions that mattered: _Did you press the button that sent death to my homeland? Did you kill my family? Was that, too, only a “test”?_

Fir Binder hadn’t looked guilt-ridden when she suggested that tests could go wrong. He seemed to view warheads as logistical problems and himself as a scientist, not a soldier. To find out who actually chose the targets, and that target in particular, she needed to find a safe way to ask better questions.

Would she have to kill Oslov’s equivalent of the Colonel—the General Magistrate? Or perhaps a whole group of people?

Once, Einara had idolized the Colonel, but her priorities had shifted and crystallized in the polar cold. Everything she’d seen here had led her to believe that a mission to destroy Oslov was doomed to crushing defeat. Resurgence was outmatched, and she had little interest in its glory. She would serve the Colonel’s aims only as long as they served her own.

She would kill the person who had killed her mother and her sister—Vangie, Evangeline, who had a strange belly laugh like a bullfrog’s croak and was just starting to learn her countries and capitals with Einara’s help. Sometimes Einara woke in a panic beside some stupid Upstart, dripping with sweat, because she’d dreamed of Vangie and couldn’t make out the details of her face, only a blurry outline.

Maybe she was starting to forget her sister, but she would never forgive the extinction of a future in a single flash of light. Forgiving was for humble souls like her great-aunt, too weak and frightened to take action. Forgiving was for those who chose to turn away and not remember.

If Einara had to slit the culprit’s or culprits’ throat with a fingernail, she would. Then she would die in this frigid foreign land, and they would burn her body, and she would be forgotten. But she would die happy.

She smiled when the Oslov wanted her to smile. She moaned when he wanted her to moan. She imagined avenging her family, as she had thousands of times in thousands of ways, and dozed off in his arms with a look of genuine bliss on her face.


	5. Charcoal Sketch

The Mental and Moral Rehabilitation Facility for Levels R-5-11 was located on the northern edge of the city’s Outer Ring, commanding a view of the most barren part of the Wastes. Walking through the long white corridors, Vera shivered every time she caught sight of a north-facing window.

There was nothing out there but flat white tundra and ice-bound sea and the carcasses of ancient machines, all hazed over with eternally flurrying flakes. How did people here stand it? How did Valgund stand it?

Valgund was in one of his bad periods, according to the Laborer who watched over his ward. He came out of his room when required, for meals and meds and the occasional talk session, but mostly he slept and stared at the wall.

So Vera was almost relieved to enter his room and find him sitting at a desk, facing that bleak view and sketching it with a charcoal crayon. It must be the only drawing implement they allowed him.

He looked up when she came in, briefly, and returned to his sketching. “You look bigger. Everything going okay?”

“Fine,” Vera half lied, easing herself down on her brother’s bed.

Physically, everything _was_ okay—more than okay. She was not ashamed to be carrying a healthy child with Laborer genes, even if the father himself thought she should be.

Since seeing Tilrey three days ago, she’d been moving through her routine in a trance of alternating anger and dread. She much preferred the anger, white-hot and seething. The dread came on her at night when she realized that all she was doing right now was delaying the inevitable.

It was time to tell everybody—her parents, the authorities, her husband—that she was carrying a child whose father she could not, would not name. It was time to pay the penalty, to undergo the Lowering ceremony and begin her new life. What good would raging against Tilrey do? None. She had to think of her son first.

But Tilrey had tried to convince her that, by doing the right thing, she was choosing a hellish life for their son. She would not forgive him for poisoning her brain that way.

“You’re upset,” Valgund said. He wasn’t looking at her—his head bent over the sketch pad, auburn hair in his eyes. When her younger brother did anything, he did it with great intensity, acting as if the other people in the room weren’t there. Yet he had a sensitivity to people’s moods, hers in particular, that was almost uncanny. “Did something happen?” he asked. “With Tollsha?”

“No.” She stared past him into the white endlessness. “They tell me you’re not leaving your room, Gunsha.”

Valgund tore off the sheet and began drawing on a fresh one. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m here to talk about you, not me. What happened? I thought you liked your new counselor.”

Valgund’s mouth twisted. “I did like her until she started saying I need to ‘face up to my reality.’ Apparently that means acknowledging my emotions are destructive and antisocial and committing myself to not feeling them. I told her I don’t care if my emotions are antisocial, they’re _mine_. And I plan to stay here, where I can feel whatever I fucking want.”

“Could you at least consider her point of view?” The words came automatically; they had some version of this argument every time. Vera knew what she had to say: feeling “whatever you fucking wanted” was not feasible. Some affects needed to be repressed for the common good.

But today, steeped in her own angry, rebellious impulses, she didn’t feel like saying all the right things about duty and self-sacrifice. “Couldn’t you pretend?” she asked. “Tell the counselor what she wants to hear, follow the rules, and then get out and live your life your own way? You wouldn’t be the first.”

Valgund made a derisive sound. “I’m not good at pretending. I don’t want to sit at a desk in the Sector and act satisfied with my life.”

“We could have you reclassified to Science. You could go back to school.” This, too, was a familiar line of argument. With a Scientist credential, Vera liked to imagine, Valgund could find a life that suited him better, such as working in a remote research station. They agreed on one thing: He needed to get _out_, as far from Redda as possible.

Valgund just kept scribbling; she couldn’t see the shape forming on the paper. “Dad wouldn’t stand for that.”

“Dad doesn’t hate you, Gunsha. He wants what’s best for you.”

“He’d rather not think about me.”

Vera had no answer for that. As much as she loved her father, she was beginning to suspect both her parents slept easier with Valgund safely locked up here. They gave lip service to his recovery, but the longer he stayed, the less they seemed to believe he could live on his own.

It was a cruel self-fulfilling prophecy—just as cruel as the stigma that surrounded bastard children. Just as barbaric. She realized she was clenching her fists and loosened them, measuring out each inhale and exhale.

What Tilrey had suggested—_that_ was barbaric, too. She would never give up her child to strangers, never throw him away the way her parents had thrown Valgund away. She would do anything to give him the best life possible.

But she didn’t _want _to raise him alone, without an extended family. Her parents would disown her and her child; that went without saying. She couldn’t blame them. There was always Tilrey’s family; surely Laborers in Thurskein would be less judgmental. Maybe they’d open their arms to her son. But Tilrey had denied her even that comfort by refusing to marry her. Instead, he’d suggested an ugly, ignoble deception.

Valgund tore off his new drawing and walked over to hand it to her. “This one’s for you.”

He’d drawn Vera herself—a surprisingly accurate rendering of her face, given the crudeness of the instrument. She looked troubled, a furrow traversing her forehead like a lightning bolt. No surprise there.

But whose was the smaller, disembodied face floating beside hers like a dream or a thought? Broad forehead, wide eyes, strong chin, blond hair—was she seeing things? No, it _was_.

“Who’s that?” she asked, though she already knew.

Valgund stared at her. His face was freckled, with more of the Linnett cheekbones and delicate symmetry than her own. “The kettle boy,” he said. “Last time we talked, you kept mentioning him.”

“I did not!” Vera’s face heated. Had they really talked about Tilrey? Was she such a lovesick fool? “Anyway, he’s not a kettle boy anymore, hasn’t been for years.”

“He was when I left.” Valgund sank back behind his desk. “You always had a crush on him—ever since that night in your terminal year when I caught you two fooling around in the vacation house.”

“You tattled to Mom!” It had taken Vera years to forgive Valgund for snitching, getting her in trouble and Tilrey in much worse trouble, she’d always suspected. “I know you hate him, but you need to stop taunting me about him. Stop living in the past.”

“I don’t hate him.” Valgund picked up his sketchpad again. “I was jealous back then, I suppose. He was so pretty, maybe I was a little pissed that he liked you and not me.”

“Maybe.” Despite herself, Vera felt a warm flush of pride. _He did like me—once. Sort of._

“But I’m not living in the past.” Her brother was drawing again. “I didn’t imagine it—you saw him recently. You mentioned something about how he brought you paperwork from his Councillor, and your whole face lit up, and you looked happy for once. He makes you happy, doesn’t he?”

The familiar rage washed over Vera in an icy flood. “Not anymore,” she said.

Her brother raised his dark eyes to meet hers. “I think you should care more about being happy, Versha. I know what they say here—duty makes us happy. But I don’t like you when you’re doing your duty. You look miserable.”

“And _you _still sound like a selfish little Hargist, refusing to face reality.” Vera sat up with a jerk. She hadn’t meant to snap at Valgund, but she always forgot how sharp he was, how well he could find her vulnerabilities. “Do you know why I’m not happy? Because you’re in here, and you seem to _want_ to stay. They won’t let me bring the baby in here, you know. Your nephew. You won’t get to meet him.”

Even as she voiced the threat, she remembered her old fantasy of getting elected Councillor and bringing Valgund to live permanently in her vacation villa. Tilrey had thrown that in her face, pointing out her choices would render her powerless to help her brother. How could he be so cruel?

Yet he wasn’t wrong.

“Vera.” Valgund was still looking at her. “Something _is _wrong. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Yes, all right!” Tears rushed into Vera’s eyes as, all at once, she realized she could tell him. Why not? She’d have to tell everyone, which meant her brother would hear sooner or later. She’d wanted to spare him, to stay positive, but it would be such an intense relief to let it all out. And he was the one person in her life who might actually be sympathetic.

She couldn’t hold his gaze, though. In a trembling voice, eyes on the view of the Wastes, she said, “I shouldn’t talk to you about duty, Gunsha. I’ve failed to do my own duty in the most unthinkable way. Soon I’ll be cast out, utterly alone. I may have trouble even coming to see you, though I swear I’ll find a way.”

“Tell me, Versha.” Her brother sounded troubled, but not surprised. “It can’t be that bad. Is Tollsha being an ass again?”

“No! It’s not Tollsha this time. I’m the one who’s dishonored him.”

The truth flooded out of her; once she started telling it, she couldn’t stop. Not that there was much to say; her future was simple, stark, and inexorable. Still, Vera found herself relating even the confrontation with Tilrey, stubbornly wiping away her tears.

Rather than reacting in any natural way, Valgund just listened, nodding thoughtfully. “Why won’t Tilrey marry you?” he asked when she paused. “That seems like the obvious solution.”

“Because of his stupid political ambitions. And because he doesn’t want to raise his own son in an honorable way, here in Redda. The awful things he said—he made me feel guilty for wanting to do the right thing!”

Vera took a tissue from the box on the nightstand and blew her nose. She couldn’t help finding her brother’s matter-of-factness soothing, even if it was proof of how far he was from a sane, sensible state of mind. Any normal person, any of her friends or colleagues, would have been slowly backing away from her, faces stiff with disgust.

Valgund sat there calmly discussing the matter as if he were grateful for a little distraction. “What do you mean? What awful things did Tilrey say?”

Vera rubbed another errant tear from her cheek. “Oh, it’s horrible. I mean, I know our kind don’t tolerate misbirths. But I thought Laborers might be more accepting, and he insisted that wasn’t so, at least in Redda. He said our son would be taunted and hounded and exploited and never find an honorable path back to the Level he deserves. He said everything would be stacked against him.” She shook her head, trying not to think of everything she knew about Tilrey’s own past.

“Well, that is a little pessimistic.” Valgund rested his cheek on a palm. “But—”

“I _want _this child, Gunsha. I know what you’re thinking. But Tilrey’s clever. He could have been an Upstart. Our child will deserve everything I was born with. I _need_ to know I can get it for him.”

Her brother sighed. “Of course your son will deserve everything good. But do you really think everyone gets what they deserve?”

“Of course they do.” He was talking like a Hargist again. “I mean, yes, the system has blips. Mistakes get made. But basically it’s fair, and with me working to help him—”

“You’re not hearing me, Vera.” Valgund’s voice had an edge. “I don’t want to take sides between you and Tilrey—who obviously has his own agenda—but I do know what he’s talking about. My friend Garsha Lindahl was rumored to be a misbirth.”

“Angar Lindahl? The boy who . . .”

“Walked out of the city into the Wastes with me and died of exposure? Yeah, him.” Valgund seem unashamed to discuss the reason he’d been sitting in this wretched institution for the past decade. “Don’t get me wrong—we had lots of reasons for doing what we did, some of which I can’t even remember. We wanted out of Redda so badly that we were both a little mad. But Garsha _was _hounded at school. His mom had a Drudge lover, and Garsha looked more like the Drudge than like the Upstart who was supposedly his dad. People said the couple had an arrangement.”

Vera twisted the tissue back and forth. “That’s just ugly gossip.”

“I know. But some of the lads—Upstarts, I mean—used to corner Garsha and proposition him. Offer him vials, ask if he needed their help cramming for his tests. Grope him when they could manage it. The Laborers weren’t much better. They kept their hands off him, but the way they looked at him . . . like he was a shit-stain, Vera. All that from a rumor. Imagine how they’d treat a kid they _knew_ was a misbirth.”

Pieces of shredded tissue were raining onto the floor. Vera bent and picked them up, hiding her face from her brother.

Valgund pulled his long legs up and wrapped his arms around them. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you like Tilrey did. Honestly, I’m not sure why I just told you that.”

“It’s okay.” Tears filled Vera’s eyes. She’d only ever wanted to protect her brother the same way she wanted to protect her son, and what had come of that? Was she qualified to take responsibility for anyone? “That won’t happen to my son,” she said softly, swearing it to herself. “I won’t let anyone hurt him or take him away.”

Valgund nodded. “You’ll be a great mom. You know what you could do, though, if you want to make this work your way? Go visit Tilrey’s family in Thurskein.”

Her gaze snapped up. Was _he _on Tilrey’s side now? “Why would I do that? I told you—”

“I don’t mean you should follow Tilrey’s plan. I mean go without telling him. Meet the family, see what kind of people they are. If you like them, tell them the truth.”

“I think it’s just his mother,” Vera said dubiously. “His father’s dead, and he never mentions anyone else.”

Valgund plunked his feet on the ground, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Even better. Imagine his poor old mother all alone, craving a grandchild. In comes this dazzling daughter of two Councillors with a sad story about how Tilrey refuses to marry her even though she’s giving up everything for him. It’s so greening romantic. How could she not be moved?”

He looked happier than he had for months, his cheeks flushed with the pleasure of scheming. Vera wanted to play along, but she couldn’t suppress her disapproval. “I do have some pride, Gunsha. Playing on an old Drudge lady’s sympathies, using my lineage to impress her—that would be unworthy.”

Her brother sighed gustily. “You’d rather not even try?”

“It’s not that. It’s just—”

“You don’t want Tilrey if you have to force him to be with you. I get it. I’m proud, too—why do you think I haven’t said all the things I need to say to get out of this shithole?” Valgund spread his arms to encompass the dreary room and the drearier view. “I still think you should go see his mom, though. She’s the only real grandparent your kid will have. Just because Tilrey’s not in your son’s life doesn’t mean she can’t be.”

Perhaps he was right. Though she had no desire to set foot in Thurskein, let alone allow her son to be raised there, Vera had to admit she was curious about Tilrey’s mother. Laborers in the outer cities were supposed to be earthier and more easy-going than Laborers in Redda—honest, uncomplicated working people who hadn’t been corrupted by envy of their betters. She could use a bit of uncomplicated right now.

It was time to get back to the office, so Vera rose and gave her brother a hug. She usually only clasped his hand because the distance in his eyes frightened her, as if he’d gotten a piece of the Wastes caught deep inside him. But this time he felt fully with her, so she hugged him and he hugged back.

“Think about it,” he said as they stepped apart.

“You think about the Science track.”

“Okay.” When she tried to hand him back the sketch he’d done of her and Tilrey, he waved it away. “You keep it.”

Tears came to Vera’s eyes again as she walked out, holding the sketch protectively against her chest. She tucked it inside her coat, safe from the gusting snow.

Maybe she was standing oddly, or maybe her face looked wrong. Taking the lift up to the tram, she felt eyes on her. The only other passenger was a young Drudge woman with a slight body and a boyish, borderline-insolent stare.

Vera was about to give the girl a searing look to put her in her place when she remembered where she’d seen her before—in Tollsha’s office. Her husband had many little “research assistants,” most of them female and suspiciously pretty. He always introduced her to them, but who could remember all those names?

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Fir’n,” the girl said.

Vera bristled, but the girl didn’t seem mocking, exactly, just blunt. “Nor I you,” she said coldly. “What is your name again?”

“Ilskund, Sibylla, Fir’n.” The girl was still staring at Vera in a way that wasn’t outright cheeky, just way too knowing. “I wish you joy of the new candle to be lit,” she said, reciting the standard congratulation.

“Thank you.” How humiliating to be seen here! Not that Tollsha didn’t know she visited her brother, of course, but still, how humiliating for his little girlfriend to see her here, perhaps visibly upset. Perhaps they’d laugh about her together. “And whom are you visiting, dear?” Vera asked as loftily as she could, though she was really curious. Only the top two tiers of Laborers used this facility, and the girl’s coat marked her as a mere R-4.

“An old friend, Fir’n.” Sibylla brushed mouse-brown hair back from her eyes. Vera spotted a smudge of darker skin on the back of her ungloved hand.

She went rigid. To most people, that mark would have looked like a long-healed burn, but Vera knew a poorly removed Hargist tattoo when she saw one. You could still see the faint shape of an owl’s head: the quirked ears, the bulbous eyes. In her own foolish Hargist days, Vera had never worked up the courage to get such a tattoo herself, but several of her friends had.

Sibylla must have seen her staring. She stuck her hand in her pocket and looked away.

Did Tollsha know what that mark meant? Did he know what he was welcoming into his bed? Vera wanted to ask and see the girl squirm, but doing so would mean admitting that she knew, too.

She was relieved when they parted at the tram stop, going to two different platforms. “Goodbye then, Fir’n,” the girl said, scuttling away.

_I hope she’s afraid I’ll tell Tollsha. She should be. _But a few moments later, safely aboard her own tram, Vera realized how stupid she was being. What did she care about her husband, his apparently Hargist mistress, honor, jealousy, or any of it? Soon none of these people or things would be part of her world.

She kept Valgund’s sketch close, careful not to crumple it. When she got home, she decided, she’d press it inside a book so she could look at it whenever she wanted. Not because it united her with Tilrey, but because it was a piece of her brother.

***

“Impossible, Tilrey,” Mirella Tunstadt said, shaking her head. “Anything you want to ask Irin, you can ask me.”

“But we all met with Irin less than a year ago, right here in this building. You’re saying now I have to go through you?” Looking at her pretty, officious face, Tilrey struggled to keep his own calm. In the past, he’d taken orders and accepted his place in the Dissident hierarchy with equanimity—he had so much practice in submission. But Harbour had changed things. It was their first briefing since his return, and already he couldn’t seem to control his temper.

It had started earlier, when Mirella had the gall to scold him for striking a deal with Duke Dalziel without her authorization. He’d stood there and endured the dressing down, even though they both knew he’d pulled off a coup. With the Duke’s active cooperation, the True Hearth would be able to staff the new Bettevy garrison with soldiers loyal to its interests.

He’d acted on his own initiative, taken control of Oslov’s diplomacy with a foreign power, and it had felt good.

And now, after Tilrey had apologized and been patient—he thought—with her harping on hierarchy and protocol, Mirella was refusing him one tiny request: to speak with Irin. Hadn’t he earned the right to give their leader a piece of new intelligence directly?

“We only held that meeting to throw Irin’s cousin off the scent,” Bror said diplomatically. They were in the usual vacant apartment block, and he lay sprawled on the bed listening to his wife and friend bicker with a look of mounting consternation.

Bror hated conflict, always wanting to reconcile everybody, but that was just too bad. Tilrey glanced from his friend to the bleak façade of the opposite building. He recalled too well how that previous meeting had ended. Bors Dartán hadn’t been thrown off the scent, and he’d blabbed to Gersha.

Mirella didn’t know that yet, any more than she knew Gersha was their willing ally. At their last meeting before the trip, Tilrey had confessed to Bror that Gersha knew about him, but Bror had long practice in discretion.

Tilrey hadn’t told Mirella how the situation had resolved—not because he didn’t trust her, just because he was sick of being micromanaged. Sooner or later—communications moved slowly—the Southern Hearth would send news of Gersha’s new allegiance, and she’d chide Tilrey for keeping secrets. Well, that was just too bad.

“This is a particularly sensitive matter,” he said, forcing himself to meet her hard brown eyes. “It concerns intelligence obtained from a free agent, a defector from Oslov.”

Now she looked interested. “A free agent? Who?”

“I can’t tell you without endangering the trust that Albertine Linnett placed in me.” Mirella didn’t need to know that Malsha Linnett was the one who’d informed him about the sleeper agents of Resurgence who were supposedly infiltrating Oslov in plain sight. Let Ranek Egil tell her if he must.

Meanwhile, Tilrey had promised Egil he’d investigate Malsha’s wild tale. And, since these sleeper agents were said to be working as whores, and Irin was in charge of food service at the Sanctioned Brothel, there was a good chance Irin knew about them—if they actually existed. It made so much more sense to speak with him directly.

“If you’re not going to be forthcoming, Tilrey—”

Should he give up and tell her? What if she dismissed the story? “I will be. To Irin.”

“You and Irin don’t move in the same circles. A meet between you would raise suspicions.”

“There are ways to arrange it. I have an old friend at the Sanctioned who—”

“No.”

Bror hauled himself upright. “I know some lads at the Sanctioned, too. We could make it look normal—like he’s going in for some R and R.” He winked at Tilrey.

Mirella crossed her arms. “Sweetheart, please don’t interfere. Tilrey, you’re not listening to me. It’s a matter of principle. Years ago, Irin did approach you directly, but we were less disciplined in those days. And we paid for it.”

“You’re not listening to _me_.”

“It’s a sensitive matter. Right. What’s more sensitive than what we’re already discussing here?”

Maybe Tilrey was just being pigheaded. But Mirella had never used her body as currency. She might laugh and find the whole thing absurd—how could a whore be a threat to the Republic?

Or she might not grasp why it was necessary to approach any potential infiltrators so cautiously. After years of servicing Oslovs and being treated like toys or tools, they would be deeply hardened against any Oslov cause, even this one. Tilrey remembered how difficult it had been to reach Krisha, who had a similar history.

Irin would grasp all that. He would know better than to barge in and ask point-blank questions and issue threats. But if Tilrey couldn’t get to Irin, maybe he’d have to go straight to the one person who was most likely to know if Malsha’s story was true—his former secretary, Artur Threindal.

Bror swung his legs off the bed. “Why are we keeping secrets from each other?” he asked sadly.

“I’m not sure.” Mirella was doing her best to stare Tilrey down. “First you act unilaterally in Harbour, and now you dangle a piece of intel and flatly refuse to hand it over.”

“He didn’t have any way to _contact_ you in Harbour.” Bror slipped an arm around his wife and fixed a pleading look on Tilrey—trying, as always, to keep the peace. “Rishka, do you have to be so cagey? She’s just trying to—”

“Keep me in line. Keep me from acting ‘unilaterally.’ Understood.” Tilrey flashed Mirella a smile with no warmth. If she drove him to it, he would lie to throw her off the scent. “Fine, then. Tell Irin I want to know . . . if Councillor Linbeck’s been visiting the Sanctioned lately.”

“That’s it? What about your sensitive intel?”

Tilrey shrugged, making his expression unreadable. “It’s not ready to discuss yet.” Let her wonder what his real game was. The substitute request would help with his damage-control plan for Besha, at least.

Mirella looked alarmed. “Linbeck doesn’t know about us, does he?”

_Placid face. Not a hint of your real feelings. _“No. But he’s Gersha’s ally in the Council, and I need to know his movements. It helps me keep him in line.”

Mirella grimaced as if she didn’t particularly want to know how he kept Besha in line. “That’s your bailiwick, I suppose.”

“Yeah. Tell Irin what happened in Harbour, okay? And tell him I still want to talk with him personally, alone. Let him decide for himself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to rewrite the last section of this a bunch of times because the politics and spy stuff are getting SO DAMN COMPLICATED. :) I hope it all makes sense; please tell me if/when it doesn't.
> 
> The intrigue will continue in the next chapter when Tilrey talks with Besha. But soon Gersha and Tilrey will have some quality time together in the lovely fresh air of the Wastes. Thank you so much for reading! <3


	6. What Besha Wants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this early because I'm going to be away till the 20th, but there will be more when I return, if not before. Thanks for reading!

“Oh, so that’s how it works now.” Besha scowled at Tilrey. “You’re following me.”

Tilrey grinned in the lazy way he had rehearsed. He was in the coldroom of the Sanctioned Brothel, leaning against the wall beside the long coat rack. The lighting here was atmospheric, limited to small torchieres near the ceiling, and the shadows had camouflaged him for the past two hours while he waited for Besha to emerge from within.

“I heard,” he said, “that you’ve been coming here every eighth-night lately.”

“Oh, Davita complained to you, did she?” Besha wound the heavy scarf around his neck. “She’s so nosy about my extracurriculars.”

“No, your wife didn’t tattle, Fir. Let me do that.” Besha had sat down to tug his outdoor boots on. Tilrey knelt to lace and clasp them for him. “I have my ways of checking up on you.”

Irin and Mirella had come through with that bit of intel, at least. Tilrey had wanted to catch Besha when he was off guard, coming from his pleasure, and Besha’s look of befuddled annoyance told him he’d succeeded.

“Oh, you have your ways, do you?” the Councillor asked sharply, jerking his foot out of Tilrey’s hands. He snapped the clasp shut and stood up. “Ever since Gersha and I had our little talk over tea, I knew I could expect a visit from you. I’ve waited a whole ten-day. And here you are, ready to soothe my suspicions and smooth over my hurt feelings.”

He swept his coat over his shoulders and strode across the room to the lift. “Have at it, then,” he continued, jabbing the button without a glance back at Tilrey. “Go ahead and try to convince me I’ve simply jumped to absurd conclusions.”

They both knew, of course, that the lift and hallways had cameras. Tilrey followed Besha into the lift, and they rode downward in the silence of things that weren’t safe to voice yet. Normally Tilrey would have masked the tension between them with banter, but he didn’t have much heart for it today and suspected Besha didn’t, either.

“Boy or girl?” he asked, trying anyway as they crossed the clammy, half-empty garage to Besha’s car.

“Which was I seeing tonight?” Besha tossed a mirthless laugh over his shoulder. “None of your business, my beauty. Don’t be jealous. I have to have some secrets, don’t I?”

Besha’s driver must have spotted them coming; he was already out of the car and holding the heavy door open. Without bothering to acknowledge the Laborer, Besha slid into the backseat and beckoned Tilrey to follow.

“After all,” the Councillor finished, settling himself, “you have so many secrets of your own, don’t you?” And then, to the driver: “Lars, go upstairs and get yourself a drink or two at the bar. Run your chip and tell them to put it on my account. I’ll call up and have someone tap you on the shoulder when I’m ready to go.”

The driver bobbed his head, blank-faced. “Very good, Fir.” He shut the door on them and trudged the way they’d come.

“Now, that’s the sort of Drudge I like dealing with.” Besha took a vial of sap from his coat and trickled some into his palm. “He doesn’t know any big words, he follows orders without question, and he doesn’t plot against the Republic.” He licked his palm and held the vial out to Tilrey. “And then, apparently, there’s you. Fancy a dip?”

Tilrey needed to keep his head clear. But he also needed to maintain the veneer of sociability, so he poured a bit of the gummy black liquid into his palm and licked it. At least Besha knew better these days than to try to feed him sap like a kettle boy.

“Gersha told me about your conversation,” he said, wiping the sticky hand on his parka. The dose was making his head buzz, but he’d been careful to waste some of it. “I gather that you confronted Gersha with certain suspicions, and he attempted to turn them around on you.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Besha hunched beside him, the garage’s ambient light too dim to give Tilrey a good read on his expression. “He practically accused me of being history’s greatest monster.”

He cut Tilrey off before he could reply: “No soothing, please. Don’t tell me he didn’t mean it. You and I both know that Gersha has a dangerous tendency, when he’s caught off guard, to blurt out what’s in his heart.”

Behind the standard acidity of Besha’s tone, Tilrey thought he detected a hint of regret, as if Gersha’s attack had actually wounded him. _Good. _If Besha cared about Gersha’s approval, he’d be easier to manage.

“You’re right about that,” Tilrey said, proceeding carefully. “But I think your insinuations did more than surprise Gersha. They frightened him.”

Besha laughed, a dry little huff in the near-dark. “They were meant to. And they were more than insinuations.” He faced Tilrey, the sodium-light glow slanting devilishly across his angular features. “Please don’t insult my intelligence by lying to me. You aren’t just a reformist. You’re a shirker. And you’ve pulled Gersha down into that mess with you.”

Tilrey didn’t let his breath hitch. He’d been expecting this. “Those are some bold conclusions to draw from one little Int/Sec analyst’s report about a series of meetings he didn’t witness firsthand.”

“Blah, blah, whatever.” Besha’s hand mimed a jabbering mouth. “You have the words to argue yourself out of any jam. But I’m not listening, because you see, Tilrey, I _know _you. I knew you when you were a naïve little piece fresh from Thurskein, and I know you now.”

“I see.” He kept his voice level. “And from knowing me so well, you’ve concluded . . .?”

Besha went quite still, gazing at him. “Frankly, I’m angry at myself for not figuring it out sooner. I thought you were out for your personal advancement like any sensible person. But you aren’t. You’re out for revenge.”

The stark word made Tilrey twitch, though he was already prepared to confess. “How dramatic.”

“Tell me about it. But I’ve watched you, Rishka. You’ve got a dramatic side. And, if I’m honest, after everything you’ve been through with Upstarts—well, I can’t entirely blame you for wanting to get your own back. It’s mad, but it’s sensible.”

“How suddenly subversive of you, Besha.” Tilrey kept his tone light, though there was bitterness underneath. “You used to tell me I was a lucky boy to belong to two General Magistrates in succession.”

“You _were _lucky! I mean, technically. You came out better in the end, didn’t you? But you had a rough time of it. I know that better than most. Back then, I thought little of it because you didn’t seem all that much brighter than the average Drudge, and their feelings don’t concern me, but—”

Tilrey couldn’t resist cutting him off. “Drudges of average intelligence don’t have feelings that matter?”

“Well—no! I mean, we’re their betters. We know what’s best for them. It’s not like they’d hold a grudge. But you—you’ve got all a Drudge’s animal cunning, but you scheme and calculate and you don’t forget things, just like a Strutter. Like _me_, anyway. I know that now. You were watching us the whole time, totting up our offenses and preparing your revenge.”

Now it was Tilrey’s turn to laugh without amusement. “You make me sound like the anti-hero of a melodramatic stream.”

“I told you you have a dramatic side. All shirkers do.” Besha jabbed a finger at him. “You want revenge, and Egil put poison in your ear, and you listened. Now you want to tear the whole system down. You want to turn Strutters into Drudges so you can lord it over us.”

Tilrey knew he should be shaken by the accusations, but they were so absurd. “Is that the fairy tale Upstart children grow up hearing, Besha? That Dissidents are monsters who want to murder or replace you?” Gersha had trotted out similar hyperbole when he first found out. “That’s not what we want at all.”

“_We_. Huh. So you’re not denying it.”

For the first time, Tilrey became aware that Besha was trembling. For all his show of disdain, sharing a confined space with a confessed shirker must unsettle him.

He softened his voice, trying to sound beaten and contrite, though he felt nothing of the sort. “There’s no point in my denying anything. You know what you know.”

“Indeed I do.”

“And Gersha and I know what we know. About you.” A harder tone now. “The question is, where do we _all_ go from here?”

Tilrey expected hesitation, blustering, vaguely worded threats. But, despite the tension in his body, Besha retained his equilibrium. Words poured out of him, as if he too had rehearsed this conversation:

“For starters, if we’re going to remain allies, I need to know what the real stakes are. If you’re planning to tear down the Republic, I won’t be a party to that unless you can offer me something better than I have now.” He shook his head impatiently as Tilrey tried to speak. “And no, please don’t say your revolution will free me to live in glorious equality with everybody else. If that’s the utopia you’re offering, no thanks.”

Tilrey thought he’d prepared for everything, but hearing Besha speak so blithely of revolution was a shock. “Equality wouldn’t suit you, no,” he said, trying to imagine Besha wearing a coverall in the Southern Hearth the way Gersha had. “But Whybergism also doesn’t entirely suit you, does it? It puts so many limits on what you can have and achieve.”

Besha crossed his arms. “If you’re trying to trap me into uttering a seditious soundbite you can use against me, don’t bother.”

“Of course. You’d never speak poorly of Whybergism or our Republic. But, Besha, you’ve never set foot outside Oslov. You haven’t seen what Gersha and I saw in Harbour—a different way of life.”

Besha laughed. “What does that have to do with shirking? You want to run away to Harbour? Live with barbarians and die of a curable illness?”

“You asked what you could have that’s better than what you have now. There’s your answer. The Duke of Bettevy wields far less actual power than you do, but he lives in a palace waited on by a fleet of servants. In terms of luxury and comfort, he’s far above any Oslov, because we self-limit. You Councillors _could_ live that way, but you don’t.”

“I suppose.” After a moment, Besha asked warily, “But is it _really _that nice? This palace?”

“You can’t imagine.” Tilrey didn’t have to pretend now. His voice strengthened as he remembered the carvings on the walls, the gold-threaded garments, the fine cider and wine and the gardens stretching down to the sparkling lake. How to sum up all that? And should he really dangle it in front of Besha as a enticement? Harbour wasn’t his to offer, but he needed something to dazzle the man and reel him in. Equality wouldn’t cut it.

So he did his best to describe the life-style he’d witnessed in the Duke’s and Malsha’s homes: the combination of primitivism with wealth and pleasure almost unimaginable by Oslov standards. “It was warm enough to swim _outdoors_, Besha. We ate dinner under the stars and smelled flowers and heard the hum of insects. I know it must sound strange to you, but—”

“I’m an _Oslov_,” Besha said in a strained voice, as if he’d been trying, despite himself, to imagine everything Tilrey described. “Maybe you want to escape to the south and paddle around in lakes and live like a microbe-infested barbarian warlord, but I’m quite happy where I am. I just want . . .”

“What?”

Besha went limp like someone surrendering a heavy burden. “Currency, all right? I want to live in a world where I can do something besides barter, and where everything I have doesn’t come from the government. You’re right about one thing—we limit ourselves, and I fucking hate it. I’m so tired of having to pull a million strings and break a million tiny nitpicky rules every time I want something. You know when I was the happiest in my life? When I was running that smuggling operation out of the military depot. We used sap for currency, and when I wanted something, I paid for it.” He slashed the air. “No questions, no paperwork. If I wanted a thicker rug in my quarters or real butter in my tea or a whore to suck me off every night before bed, I handed over some V, and there it was. Whereas now . . .”

“You still exchange a form of currency, you know. All Councillors do. But it’s patronage and kettle boys and—”

“And my hands are tied half the time and it’s way too complicated.” Besha sounded far more aggrieved than he had when they discussed tearing down the Republic. “For instance, right now, I’d love to get a private sauna in my quarters, but faking the paperwork for a medical reason is such a headache. And worse, there’s the situation with my daughter. If your shirkers can solve _that _for me, I might actually start thinking about collaborating.”

Tilrey was tempted to laugh—it was classic Besha, hurtling from the serious to the trivial. But he didn’t let himself. “What’s the problem with your daughter?”

“You probably think it’s funny—Davita does. But Gunde’s being bullied by girls at school, and she doesn’t know how to defend herself. She’s _sensitive_.”

“Have you tried mediation? Getting the staff involved?”

“Oh please. The staff turns a blind eye to bullying, and kids hate tattlers—I know all about that. No, what my Gunde needs is a bodyguard. Preferably a nice big hulking lass from a Drudge family, with a sharp tongue and ruthless nails and fists.”

He sounded dead serious. Tilrey’s amusement gave way to incredulity. “You think this is something a Dissident movement could help you with?”

“Why not? I mean, they’re Laborers, aren’t they?” Besha scowled, clearly aware that Tilrey found him ridiculous and not caring. “If they’re a real political movement, then they have a patronage structure. Someone must know someone with a kid who could protect my Gunde. Get me a meeting with your leader, and I’ll work out the terms of the deal myself.”

Trust Besha to think of everything as a deal, just as Gersha thought of everything as an ideal. And trust him to breeze in and think he could have whatever he wanted. “You can’t just meet with a leader. You have to prove your loyalty to the movement first.”

“_A_ leader?” Besha’s eyes glittered, fixed hard on Tilrey. “Just how many leaders do the shirkers have? Or do you even know who’s really in charge?”

Now it was Tilrey who fumbled for words. “It’s not like the Sector. We aim for minimum visibility. I have someone I report to, and that person has someone they report to, but no one sees the entire structure.” _Because they don’t want me to. Because they won’t let me._

“Except the person at the top—obviously, because it wouldn’t work otherwise.” Besha’s voice was a honed blade. “I’m surprised at you, Tilrey. I thought you knew something about politics. Are you saying you let some shadowy Dissident boss order you around?”

The words hit home. When it came down to it, Tilrey had no idea whether Irin Dartán was the True Hearth’s ultimate leader, whether there _was _a leader, or how many members the movement had. He knew about the Southern Hearth; he knew enough to send hundreds of people to death or exile. But that was knowledge he’d discovered by risking his own life in the field.

“By keeping to the shadows, we survive the light,” he said almost primly, quoting one of Mirella’s favorite maxims.

“These shirkers sound like a barrel of laughs. I can see why the leader would remain hidden from the rank and file,” Besha conceded. “That’s common sense. But you’re not a foot soldier, Rishka—or you shouldn’t be. You’ve brought this rebellion the resources of a _Councillor. _You should be part of their inner circle. And you’re saying you don’t even know who this inner circle is?”

“Did I say that?” _He’s trying to manipulate me by playing on my ego. _Tilrey knew the tactic too well, but he couldn’t deny he’d had all the thoughts Besha was voicing. “What I know, the extent of what I know, isn’t for _you_ to know unless you choose to put some skin in the game.”

A nasty laugh. “Oh, we’re just full of secrets, aren’t we? Labyrinths of enigmas. Tell me, Rishka, do you even know what these rebels’ ultimate objective is? Their endgame? Or have they kept that in the shadows, too?”

“If I’m being vague, it’s because I have to be. The less you know, the less you can tell Bors Dartán or someone like him.”

Besha ignored that, pressing his advantage. “You don’t even _know _whether they want to tear down Whybergism or have a bloodbath or something else, do you? They want reform, and so do you. So you’re doing their bidding. But what if they tell you to do something you don’t like? Something that hurts Gersha?”

“That wouldn’t happen.” The words were out of Tilrey’s mouth before he could stop them. He didn’t need better light to see the triumph on Besha’s face.

For a moment they gazed at each other, evenly matched and all too aware of it. Then Besha reached out and twitched a lock of hair off Tilrey’s forehead. For once it wasn’t an erotic gesture. Tilrey didn’t take Besha’s hand and caress it, didn’t try to distract him.

He simply waited, still, until Besha withdrew to his own half of the seat. Then he said, “You want something. A price for your continued cooperation with us. What?”

Besha didn’t smile. “I want _you_ to meet with the leader. Directly.” There was no more mockery in his voice, only steel. “I don’t need to know the leader’s name, but I want you to ask them the endgame question, and I want to know how they answer. And I want you to get me a bodyguard for Gunde and some workmen to build my sauna off the books.”

The jump from vast demands to petty ones made Tilrey laugh, grateful for the release of tension. “The last two things are easy. You do realize they could compromise you? Make you look corrupt?”

Besha made an imperious slash in the air. “I’m not afraid. But don’t try to put me off, Tilrey. If I’m going to be your ally, yours and Gersha’s, I need to know more about what’s in it for me. And, frankly, I’m doing you a favor by forcing you to demand a degree of transparency from your comrades that you should’ve had long ago.”

“Oh, you’re doing me a favor, are you?”

Besha pretended not to notice the sarcasm. “Think of me as your mentor in the art of high treason. Now, go forth and ask the hard questions, my little revolutionary. Do what you have to.”

He took out his handheld and made a whisking gesture, dismissing Tilrey as haughtily as he might have from his office in the Sector. “And don’t try to corner me again till you have a proper answer.”


	7. Complicities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from vacation and hope to return to posting at least weekly. Thanks so much for reading! <3

Einara was busy stripping the bed in suite 5 when Irin Dartán came in. “You look wiped out,” he said. “Hulda asked me to bring you a cup of tea.”

Hulda was the director of the Sanctioned Brothel, and this pallid, nasal-voiced little man was her nephew and lieutenant. Being noticed by either of them rarely meant anything good.

Hiding her distaste, Einara drew her robe around her and accepted the tea with a humble bow. Irin slipped a vial of sap into her hand at the same time, and she said, “Thank you, Fir. Tell Fir’n Hulda thank you, please.”

Everyone here knew she was an Outer, and she’d found that showing excessive deference helped reconcile the Laborers to her presence. Sometimes they grumbled about “fake Oslovs” taking their jobs. If they’d known she was not just an Outer but a Harbourer—well, they would never know. Or not till it was too late.

Irin waved her thanks away. “It’s nothing. Sit down, lass. Let me do that.”

Einara wanted to get to the showers, but she sat down obediently and sipped her tea while Irin tackled the linens. The beds in the suites, reserved for high Upstarts and Councillors, were enormous and canopied. They were facsimiles of the beds in R-11 apartments, one of the lads had told her. But they weren’t a tenth as beautiful as some of the rooms in Colonel Thibault’s palace.

It still astounded Einara how little Oslovs seemed to care about the aesthetics of their surroundings. Central heating and electricity were blessings that she immensely appreciated, but with all that technology, surely they could have made their city a little less . . . monotone?

Irin whisked the hamper out from under the bed and piled it high. “How many times have you been with Fir Councillor Linbeck?”

She tried to remember, but the men blended together, even Councillors. The only ones she noticed were the ones who might tell her something she could use. “Four or five, I think.”

“He’s been seeing you every ten-day. He seems to like you.”

Did he? Fir Linbeck liked to give orders; Einara followed them. Sometimes he talked. But he had nothing to do with war or weaponry, as far as she knew, so she immediately forgot what he said. She was good at remembering but even better at forgetting; both were useful skills.

“He gives me sap, Fir,” she said, staring straight ahead in the open, guileless way that worked to convince most Oslovs she didn’t have much going on upstairs. “He’s nice.”

“I imagine he’s quite generous.” Irin unfurled a fresh bottom sheet and fitted it with brisk efficiency, as if he’d done her job in his day. “Does he ask you to dress as a boy? A kettle boy?”

“Sometimes, Fir.” Many patrons liked girls to dress in those tightly belted tunics and trousers. This was considered cross-dressing and was “naughty” and “taboo breaking,” according to a chatty boy named Tobias whom Einara had overheard in the staff lounge. For her part, she was still mystified by Oslov clothing. The men’s tunics were only slightly shorter than the women’s skirts; why did the difference matter? “Sometimes he has me dress as a girl, though. Or just wear nothing.”

“Does Fir Linbeck hurt you?”

Einara took a moment to process that one. “Hurt” was something she rarely felt anymore—and, more importantly, she wasn’t sure what Irin would expect her to feel. “He ties me up sometimes, Fir. He uses objects on me. He asks me to plead and say I don’t like it. But none of it really hurts.”

Irin nodded impatiently, smoothing down the top sheet. “Does he talk to you afterward about his life? His work?”

Einara opened up one of the locked drawers in her memory where she kept most of her interactions with “patrons.” “He talks about his wife, mostly. Little fights they have. Sometimes he’ll do something to me, and he’ll say that when his wife did the same thing to him, it really stung afterward.”

That made Irin grimace as if he disliked Councillor Linbeck. “You’re not very discreet, are you, Einara?”

“Oh!” She brought a hand to her mouth in mock distress. Was he trying to trap her? To find out if she was smarter than she appeared? “I wasn’t thinking, Fir. I guess it was wrong of me to say so much. But you did ask.”

“I _did_ ask.” Irin creased the duvet neatly under the pillows—then, looking satisfied with his handiwork, plumped down on the bed. “Don’t worry, lass. I _am _discreet, and I won’t pass the info on. I’m just wondering . . . does the Councillor ever talk to you about someone named Tilrey Bronn?”

The name wasn’t familiar. Einara shook her head, taking another sip of tea. What was this man’s game? Normally she stayed aloof from the internal politics of the brothel, being so low in its hierarchy and an Outer to boot. Many of the staff barely treated her like a person, discussing her while she was standing right there. _Pretty girl, but slow on the uptake. Or are all Outers a bit slow?_

Yet Irin seemed to think she might know something useful, which made her wonder in turn if _he _did. And then she remembered something else about Linbeck. “The Councillor calls me ‘Rishka’ sometimes, Fir. He sort of groans it when he’s about to come.”

That got a reaction—a wide, unpleasant smile. “Have you ever asked him who Rishka is?”

“No, Fir. I don’t ask patrons anything.”

Irin tugged another vial from his coverall and rolled it across the duvet to her. “Next time, ask him. See how he reacts. Tell me everything.”

Einara bowed her head in tacit consent, but she didn’t reach for the vial. “Is there anything else I should ask Councillor Linbeck, Fir?”

“Hmm. Yes. Ask him if he’s stressed out, if he’s been working hard. If he says yes, offer to massage him. As he relaxes, ask if there’s anything specific he wants to talk about, any worries. Flatter him. Tell him you can’t imagine how anyone manages a job as hard and important as his.” Irin broke off, frowning. “You do understand what I’m saying? Be subtle. Don’t interrogate him. If you ask him questions point blank, he’ll get his guard up.”

“I understand, Fir.” Einara had always hidden behind a veil of feigned stupidity, but if she wanted to gain Irin’s trust, she would have to reveal some small part of herself. Was it worth it?

She took hold of the vial on the duvet and rolled it back toward him. “This isn’t what I want, though.”

“No?” He was still frowning, suspicion pulling the angles of his vulpine face tight. “And what does Fir’n Einara want, then?”

She pretended not to notice the mockery. “I want to know about the invasion, Fir.”

“Invasion?”

Einara made her eyes wide and naïve. “The invasion of Harbour by Oslov. When is it going to happen?”

Irin looked baffled, which was no great surprise. Artur Threindal had warned Einara long ago: _Never ask an Oslov about the attack on your homeland. Never ask about foreign policy at all. They’ve all been raised to believe Oslov is an island. Only Upstarts with the highest security clearance _might_ be able to answer your questions, and they know enough not to._

But it was all right if Irin thought she was making no sense. It might even be helpful. Keeping her innocent face on, she continued: “Piter told me about it—one of the soldiers I knew in the garrison. He’d been stationed in Harbour. He told me Oslov has enough soldiers and weapons to conquer the whole continent. He said someday you’ll all live there and run around outdoors naked and eat fruit off trees. That’s when I knew I wanted to be an Oslov, Fir. Living in Harbour sounds lovely.”

Irin snorted out a laugh. “What was your soldier drinking when he told you this? Ten-year-old lichen moonshine?”

_Straight face_. “I don’t know, Fir. So it’s not true, then? About the invasion?”

“Of course not. Well, I mean, not that _I _would know.” He scowled. “I’m nobody. But your soldier was a foolish boy daydreaming to pass his time in the Wastes. Oslov doesn’t invade anything. Oslov is an island.”

Einara bowed her head again, as if accepting his superior knowledge, and asked slyly, “Then why does Oslov have such a great arsenal, Fir?”

“For security! And that’s not our business—yours or mine. Our business is keeping high Upstarts happy.” Irin rose from the bed and gazed down at her. “Did you learn a lot about this ‘arsenal’ when you were in the garrison?”

“Oh no, Fir. Just that it exists.” That was no lie. She dropped her eyes. “The troops, well . . . they kept me busy in other ways.”

“I’m sure they did.” He took the tea tumbler from her with a click of his tongue: _tut tut_. “So you’re a curious girl, then. Maybe not entirely happy with your new home.”

“I didn’t say that, Fir!” Einara sprang up and backed away from him. “Please don’t tell Fir’n Hulda I said any of that. I’m so _very _grateful to be here.”

“Yes, yes, of course you are. How about this, then? You tell me what you can learn from Fir Councillor Linbeck, and I’ll tell you what I can learn about our current relations with Harbour. It’s not much, of course. But I do know the lad who services the Ambassador whenever he’s back in Redda.”

The word _Ambassador _was a lightning bolt through Einara’s brain, stiffening every part of her body. She did her best not to show it. “Thank you, Fir. I swear I meant no treason; I just like to hear stories about the fruit trees and flowers and animals. It sounds so beautiful.”

“You know you’re not supposed to be thinking about things that have no relevance to our lives?”

“Of course!” She spoke too quickly, as if she hadn’t known till just now how subversive her thoughts were.

“Being a proper Oslov is about self-limiting, Einara. The whole reason your people live in caves is that they lack discipline.”

Did he believe anything he was saying? Einara suspected not, but she said, “I know, Fir. I know. You really won’t tell your aunt?”

Irin looked at her in a new way—expectant and calculating, the way a potter back home might look at a fresh hunk of river clay. “Don’t worry, my love. I think we can keep each other’s secrets.”

***

Tilrey had barely said two words since coming home from his “damage control” talk with Besha. He’d taken the tea that Gersha offered, and he’d let Gersha make him a bath. He’d stripped and settled docilely in the tub, his cup on the tiled rim beside him. He wouldn’t meet Gersha’s eyes.

Was something really wrong, or was he just preoccupied? This morning at the office, Tilrey had warned Gersha he’d be late because he was hoping to catch Besha alone. Now dread ballooned in Gersha’s chest. It was his fault Tilrey had had to ambush Besha at all; he’d made such a mess of things.

He climbed out of the bath, knelt beside Tilrey, and took hold of his shoulders. Tilrey tensed, then went limp as Gersha began to knead, digging into the muscle with his thumbs.

“How’s that, love? Too hard?”

“No, it’s good.” He relaxed back into Gersha’s touch. “Keep going, please.”

Gersha had never trained in massage, but Tilrey had taught him the basics. Steam drifted from the bath and condensed on their faces in cool pinpricks. Tilrey sighed, his knotted muscles loosening, and dropped his head forward. “I have to go to the Wastes,” he said.

The pronouncement was such a surprise that Gersha’s hands stilled. “Why? When?”

“Over November recess, before the heavy snows come. I need to find a settlement in the mountains called Weigand, near Base H98. It’s not on any maps I have access to, but I have a contact at the base who might be able to help. A friend of Gavril Ardaly’s—we arranged it in Harbour.”

“Wait a moment, love. Back up.” Gersha pressed his palms to Tilrey’s shoulder blades, feeling the tense, chiseled ridges of muscle. “_Why_ do you need to go? What’s out there?”

“Artur Threindal. Malsha’s former secretary—a defector now, I guess.” Tilrey spoke in a monotone, giving every word equal weight. “Malsha told me he trains the infiltrators from Resurgence, teaches them to act like Oslovs. I need him to tell me where and who they are.”

The mention of Malsha Linnett made Gersha bristle—why was Tilrey still _listening_ to the man who’d hurt him?—but he resumed his patient kneading. Tilrey was upset enough already; his job was to calm them both down. “Did you end up seeing Besha tonight?” he asked carefully. “Does he have something to do with this new plan?”

“I saw him, but this isn’t his idea. Well, not per se. It’s complicated.”

“I thought you had someone else you could ask about these so-called infiltrators. A contact in the Sanctioned Brothel.”

“That didn’t go anywhere.” Tilrey sighed again and leaned his head back against Gersha’s chest. “Everybody’s being so fucking difficult.”

Dread reached up into Gersha’s throat, stealing his breath. “Is Besha, uh, being difficult? Did he threaten us?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Don’t worry.” Tilrey’s hand was warm around Gersha’s, lifting it, and Gersha felt the soft press of his lips. “Besha’s actually more receptive than I imagined—well, assuming he’s not entrapping us. But that wouldn’t be in his interest. No, it’s just that he’s given me an inconvenient ultimatum. He’s making his cooperation contingent on my speaking directly to my contact in the True Hearth, getting certain questions answered. And my contact doesn’t want to be spoken to.”

Gersha couldn’t help noticing that Tilrey found ways around saying the contact’s name. To protect Gersha, or because Gersha still couldn’t be trusted?

He didn’t like that, but he understood—being back in Oslov made him remember the bad times, too, when there’d been secrets between them. With his free hand, he stroked Tilrey’s damp hair, slicking it back from his face. “Besha demanded that? He has some nerve.”

“I know, but he’s right. The True Hearth still keeps me at a distance, treating me like an asset instead of a decision maker. That needs to change.” Tilrey worried Gersha’s fingers between his own, his tension palpable. “If I want to be on equal footing, I need to give them truly valuable intel. A vague promise worked with Ranek, but it won’t here. Irin discounts me—”

He stopped short. Gersha freed his hand as gently as he could and began massaging Tilrey’s shoulders again. “You can say his name,” he said, keeping the reproach out of his voice. “I’m with you for life, Rishka—and with the Hearth, for that matter.”

“But they won’t see it that way. I mean, back in Harbour when you were wearing a coverall, yes, but here it’s different. They don’t even trust _me_, and I don’t know if they’ll ever trust you.” Tilrey jerked fretfully. “I need something precious. Something the Hearth can’t do without. That could be the price of entering the inner circle.”

Watching Tilrey, Gersha remembered how it felt to worry constantly about his status in a rigid hierarchy. He’d resented it, even hated it, but he’d still suffered sleepless nights and bitter mornings because it drove him mad to see Majority Leader Verán favoring Besha—_Besha!_—over him.

All that was over. Tilrey had taught him how to be a person instead of a status-girded shell. Harbour and the Southern Hearth and Ranek and the Duke and Peony had swept away the last remnants of his old self. If Gersha still cared about his social position, he swore to himself, it was only because he wanted to use it as a tool to free them both—and so many others.

“Shhh,” he said, tracing Tilrey’s vertebrae with his thumbs. “If Threindal’s intel is what you need, if you’re sure, then you’ll get it. Just not alone.”

“What do you mean? You can’t—”

“Come with you to the Wastes? I don’t see why not, and I don’t see how you can go alone with a broken ankle.”

Tilrey twitched. “I barely need the cane now. I won’t need it in mid-November.”

“Better safe than sorry. We’ll say we’re spending time at my villa. We can visit your mother afterward—it’s been a while. I miss her, and I want to call you ‘husband’ in front of her.”

Tilrey’s shoulders hitched in what might have been a laugh. “She’ll think you’re mad. Or she’ll be overjoyed—I’m honestly not sure. But you’re trying to distract me, Gersha. Weigand is remote—high in the Southern Range. Are you sure you’re up for climbing a mountain?”

Gersha tipped his husband’s head back and dropped a kiss on his hairline. _All this turmoil inside your stubborn head, love, and I can hold it between my hands._

If only he could soothe that turmoil as easily as he smoothed the drops of condensation from Tilrey’s brow. “Am I up for it? Considering what I survived in Harbour, I’m going to say yes. More importantly, though, I won’t hear of you going alone. That’s out of the question.”

“I’ll have a soldier guide at least part of the way,” Tilrey protested, but he eased backward as Gersha’s arms slipped around him. “I don’t want to put your life in danger again.”

“You didn’t put my life in danger. I did.” Gersha kissed Tilrey’s shoulder, opening his mouth to suckle the moist, silken skin. He’d been so foolhardy chasing after Tilrey, and others had paid the price for it. But he couldn’t help feeling grateful for the time they’d had together in the Southern Hearth, warm September hours that he’d cherish till his last moment and beyond.

They’d affirmed their bond in front of witnesses, and no one had laughed or pronounced Gersha a degenerate. People had toasted and celebrated with them. He had to keep those things fresh in his memory; they _had _happened.

“Anyway,” he went on, “a solo trip is out of the question. I hereby _order _you to take me on your wild jaunt to the Wastes.”

Tilrey laughed, a faint rumble under the skin, and turned to draw Gersha down into his arms. “Oh, it’s an order, is it?”

Gersha buried his face against Tilrey’s neck to hide his blush—how strange that Tilrey could still make him blush. “You know what I mean, love. I won’t stop you from doing anything. I just—I want to be with you. To help you.”

Tilrey’s nod was a soft pressure on the crown of Gersha’s head. “Just one thing. If we find Artur Threindal . . . well, he remembers me another way. Younger. It could be awkward. And, for safety, we should disguise you.”

“Disguise me?” Gersha couldn’t help cringing a bit at the word. Wearing the clothing of a Level not one’s own was criminal. But he saw immediately what Tilrey meant: A Councillor couldn’t traipse openly about the Wastes without attracting attention.

“Whatever it takes.” He nipped gently at Tilrey’s neck. “I’ll be someone else for you. It could even be fun.”


	8. Fish Out of Water

People kept looking at Vera. She felt eyes on her all the way to Thurskein, though she kept her own gaze turned to the shuttle’s window and the yawning emptiness of the Wastes. What did these Laborers find so fascinating about her? Was it just the status that was evident from her tweed coat and simulated-fur-lined hood? Could they spot marks of something special in her bearing, in her face? Or would stripping her of these clothes transform her into a Drudge, indistinguishable from them?

Apparently she was destined to find out.

Vera hadn’t wanted to wait until the November recess—it was close to her due date—but it was the only way to take this trip without asking for time off work and attracting unnecessary attention. Not that the trip was a secret; she’d obtained proper permission from the Admin of Sector Six, who barely listened to her pretext before offering to schedule her a private flight to Thurskein. “It’s no trouble, I do it all the time,” he’d said breezily.

But Vera insisted on traveling by the regular shuttle with the Laborers. If this was to be her life, she should start getting used to it.

Despite the staring, no one was openly disrespectful. As they filed off the shuttle, several people ushered her in front of them, bobbing their heads and smiling. A few mumbled words of congratulation, acknowledging her now very visible pregnancy. _See? _she told herself. _They’re just people like you._

The arrival terminal was a whirl of Drudges in coveralls and drab parkas. Vera desperately needed a restroom but didn’t want to ask where one was. Was she supposed to stand with everyone else in the queue that wound toward the checkpoint? In Redda, signs would have pointed her to the shorter Upstart queue, but here there was no such thing.

She’d never been anywhere but her home city and her family’s vacation house in the Southern Range, and until now she’d seen nothing wrong with drawing the boundaries of her world there. But here was proof of just how small that world was—a vast hive of Oslovs who seemed downright foreign with their sludgy accents, all buzzing around under the fluorescents. Had Tilrey felt this overwhelmed when he first arrived in Redda from Thurskein?

To her relief, a slight figure detached itself from the crowd and headed her way. It was a young man with flaxen hair and full lips, dressed in a baggy coverall, fleece jacket, and scarf. “Fir’n Linnett?” he asked, stopping at a respectful distance. “I’m here to escort you to your quarters in Fir’n Supervisor’s suite.”

Despite the burr of his accent, his poised deference made Vera feel more at home. “Thank everything green,” she said, handing him her coat and overnight bag. “Would you mind first showing me to the nearest facilities?”

It wasn’t until Vera was standing beside her guide in the lift, watching the floors tick upward, that she realized she hadn’t asked his name. It wouldn’t have mattered in Redda, but she didn’t know where to place anyone in this city’s internal hierarchy. For all she knew, he could have been the Supervisor’s second-in-command.

To craft a plausible rationale for her trip, Vera had researched the conditions of factory workers in Sector Six, cramming all the latest literature. But she would need to fake her way through the minutiae of Thurskein’s governmental protocols.

“Is this your first time here, Fir’n?”

“It is.” With a start, Vera realized her companion was attractive, despite his shapeless workingman’s clothes. His violet-tinged eyes were fixed attentively on her.

A wry smile. “Finding it a bit of a dump, then?”

“No! Of course not.” Thurskein _was_ a tad dingy compared with the parts of Redda that Vera frequented—no marble, no granite, no blinding-white expanses. Yet everything seemed solid, well-lit, and tidy enough. Of course, she was probably seeing only the best parts. “A working city is not a ‘dump’ to me,” she said primly. “There’s nothing ignoble about physical labor.”

“Of course not, Fir’n.”

Was there a touch of mockery in the young man’s voice? She tried not to think about that as they got off the lift and proceeded down a spacious white hallway with a gray carpet.

Vera was used to living her life indoors. Still, knowing that Thurskein was essentially a single building, a mysterious warren of activity stretching for tens of kilometers in every direction, gave her a jittery feeling that spread from her chest to her throat. How far away was outdoors? What if a fire broke out?

The young man entered a code on a wall panel, and a door slid open to reveal a well-appointed suite with a bank of windows. She brushed past him and almost ran to look out.

This must be the top floor of the city. The drop was a bit dizzying, but nothing compared with a Reddan skyscraper. To either side, she could see the city walls, grooved concrete alternating with neat liver-colored masonry. They bulged and curved sinuously; she couldn’t see where they ended. Was Thurskein . . . a circle? A helix? Or just an undulating line? She couldn’t remember.

And directly in front of her—nothing. A few blocky outbuildings, a distant black line that must be the security barrier, and then the emptiness of the Wastes. White on white: vaporous, endless. As Vera gazed out there, a small sound of fear and protest escaped from her throat.

Had the boy heard? No, of course not. He was busy hanging up her coat and stowing her bag. “Supervisor Lindtméran is ready to see you whenever you like, Fir’n,” he said. “If you touch the button here by the door, I’ll be right in to show you to her office.”

“Now,” Vera said almost gruffly. She didn’t want to be alone with that unsettling view. “If she’s ready to see me, so am I. Ready to see her, I mean.”

The offices occupied an adjacent “node” of the sector, as the young man put it. They had to use a moving walkway to get there; Vera stood still and let it carry her. “So few windows, and everything the same,” she murmured, swabbing her face with a handkerchief. The city reminded her of the subterranean levels of Redda, where she’d gotten terrifyingly lost once as a child. “How do you orient yourselves?”

“Getting around the sector is second nature to us, Fir’n. We’ve lived here all our lives.” The young man halted in front of an open door. “Fir’n Supervisor,” he said into the aperture, “here’s Fir’n Under-Secretary Linnett to see you.”

A lithe figure stepped out. And just like that, Vera found herself face to face with her child’s grandmother. She shoved her handkerchief away, trying to smooth her features into calm superiority, but tears rose unbidden to her eyes.

She’d expected Tilrey’s mother to resemble him, only older. In fact, the only thing they had in common was height and proud, straight carriage. Where her son was all sky and sunlight and sweet, teasing lips, Fir’n Lindtmerán looked almost forbidding. She had a lean, youthful face, cropped auburn hair, and a steady gaze that seemed to size up Vera and not find her terribly impressive.

Still, her voice was warm as she extended her hand and said, “We’re so honored by your visit, Fir’n. Come, take a seat.”

The office was spacious, with a window that made Vera feel less boxed in. Lindtmerán waited to seat herself until Vera had, perching a stack of paper files on her lap. “I’ve tried to assemble what data I could for you on short notice.”

Was that a subtle reproach? Vera made a point of looking the woman in the eye. Though she found no disrespect there, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Angelika Lindtmerán was waiting for her to prove herself.

She took a deep breath and forced herself into work mode. “Thank you so very much, Supervisor. I appreciate your assistance under my time constraints. The Bureau of Labor has been tasked with preparing an efficiency action protocol for the new year, and we’re interested in the methods you’ve used to attain your current numbers. If you could provide me with . . .”

And so forth, on and on. Soon Vera was boring even herself, her voice a drone—nothing new for her in her posting as under-secretary of the Bureau. In reality, the efficiency action protocol wasn’t due for another six months, when she wouldn’t be an Upstart anymore, and she couldn’t care less about the methods that Lindtmerán used to wring more productivity from her lineworkers. She’d write up a mind-numbing report that would be duly ignored, using it to camouflage the real purpose of her visit.

But how to broach that real purpose? One didn’t just say, “Oh, by the way, I’m carrying your son’s child; could you persuade him to marry me?”

Lindtmerán was nodding and looking more interested in Vera’s monologue than Vera was herself. “Your attention to our numbers gratifies me, Fir’n. If I may say so, Redda rarely deigns to take much interest in our methods.”

“Well.” Vera tried to look like someone who cared a lot about productivity. “This _is _a factory city. Who could grasp the psychology behind fruitful labor better than you do?”

“I’ll give you an overview of our procedures, Fir’n. Then, tomorrow, if you’re willing, I’ll pair you with a line manager for a tour of the floor so you can see them in action.” Lindtmerán broke off, looking contrite. “But I don’t want to keep you too long—this is the recess, correct? You must be on your way to join your family in the Southern Range.”

“I—” Vera tugged out the handkerchief again and rubbed her smarting eyes. How had this Drudge even known about the Sector’s November recess? Being amid Laborers was bringing it all home to her. Her dull government job, these clothes, the respectful treatment she took for granted—all would soon disappear. “I won’t be joining my family this time,” she managed.

Lindtmerán didn’t miss the signs of distress. When she spoke again, her tone was softer, less officious. “Fir’n Under-Secretary, what can we do for you? Is there anything you need?”

How humiliating. “I’m fine,” Vera said, trying to recover her dignity. “It’s the hormones, I suppose—I get emotional sometimes for no reason.” When she dared glance at the Supervisor’s face, she saw a look of compassion that startled her. Either the woman was an excellent actor, or the feeling was genuine.

“Of course, Fir’n. I’m a mother myself, you know. I didn’t want to mention it before, when we were focusing on work—but, if you’d forgive a personal question, is this your first child?”

Vera nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

“I wish you joy of the candle to be lit. I always feel we should discuss these things more openly. There’s no reason to feel embarrassed about giving life to the next generation, or to pretend it doesn’t put a certain strain on us at times. But perhaps that seems rather silly to you, Fir’n.”

“No. It doesn’t seem silly.” Vera had heard that Thurskein Laborers were “earthier” than Reddans, more intuitive and less cerebral, closer to the mentality of their Feudal ancestors. She supposed this was an example, yet the woman’s words made sense to her. “Men never want to hear about such things, as if they weren’t affected by their hormones as well!”

Lindtmerán laughed softly. “They are affected, aren’t they?” She turned to the young man who still hovered by the door. “Mal, would you fetch us some tea? I think Fir’n Under-Secretary could use some refreshment after her long trip.”

***

“You look a bit green,” Tilrey said, extending a hand to help Gersha out of the helicopter onto the tarmac. “How are you doing?”

The bitter wind drove icy flecks in their faces. The bumpy, nausea-inducing ride had taken them into the heart of the Wastes. Army Base H98 crouched at the foot of the island’s long mountain range, close to its northern extremity; there were no taiga forests here, only tundra, crags, and sky.

“Well, I managed not to lose my lunch. But I look a fool, don’t I?” Gersha’s eyes swept over the airfield. Tilrey knew he was taking in the soldiers to either side of them, some standing on duty while others chatted in informal groups. None of them appeared to take much notice of the new arrivals. Normally, they would have been running to dance attendance on a Councillor, but Gersha was not a Councillor today.

He had disguised himself in the modest parka and tunic of a low-level Upstart functionary, using the name Arvan Arnesen. Tilrey had supplied the new persona’s physical disguise, working one of Bror’s connections at the Central Depot, while Gersha had created its digital footprint.

Officially, the two of them had been sent by Councillor Gádden to tour Base H98 and seek volunteers for the forthcoming garrison in Harbour. Their main contact, a certain Sergeant Beirtrande Aurinthal, was a trusted friend of Gavril Ardaly. Tilrey hoped she’d help them fulfill their real objective here—for a price.

“You don’t look a fool at all.” He gave his husband a discreet pat on the back to steer him toward the concrete bunker that loomed above them. It was flanked by dingy-white silos that were barely distinguishable from the whiteness of everything else. “You just look different,” Tilrey added. “And you don’t officially exist today, which must be interesting.”

“Oh, I exist,” Gersha countered. “But only for a ten-day, after which I self-destruct. Creating a new citizen in Records is easier than you might think.”

“Easy for you, maybe.” Tilrey squinted into the sleet. “Where is this Sergeant Aurinthal?”

“Behind you,” said a jaunty voice with a Karkei accent. They turned to find a stout woman in her mid-forties, dressed in a low-tier officer’s rust-red uniform. Ashy curls escaped from the hood of her heavy parka.

She looked them up and down, giving special attention to Tilrey. “Sergeant Aurinthal at your service. Captain Westerfeindt said you requested me in particular.” Her eyes narrowed suggestively. “To what do I owe the pleasure of hosting two _very_ important visitors from Redda?”

Tilrey felt Gersha tense, clearly incensed by the sergeant’s lack of respect. He nudged himself in front and gave Aurinthal a wide, conciliating smile.

“You were personally recommended to Fir Councillor Gádden by Sergeant Ardaly, an acquaintance of ours from Harbour—may his last moment be bright,” he added, remembering that the defected soldier was now officially dead. He shot a glance at Gersha, who parroted the formula: “May his last moment be bright.”

“May his last moment be bright,” Aurinthal echoed, her face turning somber. “Ardaly was a good man.”

Gersha appeared at a loss for words, perhaps unsure how to act in his new, less important role. So Tilrey continued to take the lead: “He was a good man indeed, a brave man, a great help to us. His loss was a blow. The hinterlands of Harbour can be a rough place.”

“Fucking barbarians.” Aurinthal stamped a heavy boot for emphasis, kicking up snow. “’Scuse my language, Fir.”

“No offense taken,” Gersha said tartly.

“We don’t get a lot of Str—er, a lot of Upstarts around here. Our manners aren’t what you’d call _correct_.” She turned to lead them toward the bunker. “So, what exactly did Sergeant Ardaly recommend me for? I don’t usually have dealings with folks that work for Councillors.” She spoke the word “Councillor” like it burned her mouth.

Gavril had warned Tilrey that Aurinthal would be skittish. She was the facilitator of several small-scale smuggling operations and preferred to stay well below the radar. “But that’s exactly what you need,” Gavril had added. “You can trust her. She’s not gonna rat you out to Central Command.”

“Is there a place we can speak more privately?” Tilrey asked now.

“Huh.” The sergeant eyeballed him again as if trying to dissect him. “Privately with your Fir, or privately without him?”

“I’m not his immediate superior,” Gersha snapped. “That would be the Councillor.”

Tilrey got between them again, giving Aurinthal what he hoped was a look of long-suffering complicity. “With him. Ardaly knew us both, Sergeant. He said to tell you he hopes your record for distance shooting from the guard tower hasn’t been broken yet.”

Aurinthal rolled her eyes as if remembering something amusing. “Follow me.” As she led them between two sentries and through a blast door into the concrete hive, she added cockily over her shoulder, “Is everybody in the Sector as pretty as you two?”

“Far from it,” Tilrey said. “But some of us have to be.”

“Oh yeah? Good looks come in handy in Redda?”

Tilrey willed Gersha not to answer, not to take offense. They needed the sergeant’s trust. But before he could jump in, Gersha said in a sulky way, “_He’s_ Fir Councillor’s favorite. Gives him intimate services. Me, I just file things for him and write code.”

Was Gersha actually acting his part? Tilrey repressed a grin. “Don’t listen to Fir Arnesen, Sergeant. He has a bit of a jealousy problem. But he knows I like him best.”

“You two, eh?” Aurinthal was leading them down ever narrower corridors, her strides long and brisk. When she launched herself up a steep staircase, even Tilrey panted to keep up, though his ankle hardly bothered him now.

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” she called down to them, seemingly unwinded. “Must be a little awkward, though, if the Councillor’s also the jealous type.”

“Oh, he is, Fir’n. But we’re very discreet.” Green hells, Tilrey needed to allot more hours to the gym; the injury had gotten him out of his old routine. But who had time for all that exercise anymore?

He was relieved when they reached the top of the stairs. Aurinthal pressed her hand to a sensor, and a door opened onto a high outdoor catwalk.

They were at the rear of the building facing the jagged black mountains, fully exposed to the wind. Tilrey saw Gersha flinch. He resisted the urge to wrap an arm around his husband’s slender form—this wasn’t the time. “Is this a guard post?”

Aurinthal laughed hoarsely. “It’s a smoke break post.” She pulled out an illegal stimulant pipe and lit it, sending acrid smoke wafting into the dusk. “Cams do the guarding, not like there’s much out there to guard against. Case you haven’t noticed, our northern barbarians are kinda outmatched.”

How many Oslov troops had even seen combat? Tilrey wondered. They outmatched everyone. “Reassuring,” he said.

The sergeant grimaced. “That’s one way to put it. ‘Boring as hell’ is another. Ever since I heard about what happened to Ardaly, I’ve been dreaming of snagging a post down south so I can kick some Harbourer ass.”

“Not all Harbourers are—” Gersha objected, but Tilrey stopped him with a look. They weren’t here to educate this woman. “I’m sure you’d be effective at ass kicking,” he said diplomatically.

“You bet your own sweet ass I would. So, what’s the deal? I’m getting a feeling you two lovebirds aren’t really here on your Councillor’s say-so.”

“Very perceptive,” Gersha muttered.

Tilrey flashed Aurinthal his pleasant smile again. It was time for them both to drop the pretense of doing lawful business. “My Fir colleague is really only here as a favor for me. You see, I’m trying to find an old friend—someone who’s fallen off the map, as it were. A citizen who’s not a citizen anymore.”

Aurinthal gave him a hard look. “You mean an exile? A dead man? Can’t say we’re harboring any ghosts here.”

“Of course not.” But he had a feeling she knew exactly what, and perhaps even whom, he was talking about. “This ghost in particular—well, he’s said to haunt a settlement called Weigand. Tall, slender, with gingerish hair. Speaks with the accent of a proud Reddan. He used to go by the name Artur Threindal.”

Aurinthal’s face froze for a split second, but her voice betrayed no particular reaction. “Weigand’s up in the mountains at the foot of Kheirhaal Pass. That’s a trek.”

“Perhaps one you have a little experience with?” Gersha asked. Thanks to Gavril, they both knew that Aurinthal was skimming the top off the base’s stores and smuggling them over the pass to Outers in exchange for illicit goods. The isolated mountain village must make a good hand-off point.

Still Aurinthal betrayed nothing, keeping her gaze on Tilrey. “I may have been up there on patrol a few times, yeah. I know these mountains. But you can’t get a skimmer all the way up to Weigand—too much exposed rock. You gotta hike the last few kilometers.”

“We can hike a few kilometers.” Tilrey shot Gersha a reassuring glance to remind his husband he could walk just fine now—and he certainly could use the exercise. “Could you take us as far up as a skimmer will go?”

“I _could_.” Aurinthal crossed her arms, spitting out foul smoke. “But taking you anywhere in a restricted zone without an order from Central Command—well, that would be a serious breach of duty.”

Gersha snorted. “I’m sure you’ve never breached your duty before.”

The sergeant wheeled to face him, eyes wide. “I’ve got a squeaky-clean record, _Fir, _and I intend to keep it that way. I can’t help wondering again, does your Councillor even know you’re here?”

“Sweetheart. Please.” Tilrey interposed himself, one hand reaching into the deep pocket of his parka. “Fir’n Sergeant, I promise you, my colleague isn’t here to question how you do your duty any more than you’re here to question how he does his.”

He tugged out a roll of rubber-banded sap vials—twenty by his count—and held them where the sergeant could see them through the twilight. “We have the utmost respect for you and your duty.”

Aurinthal didn’t reach greedily for the bribe, but he could see her pupils expand. “Skimming you up into the mountains would mean taking a whole day’s leave.”

“And you can consider this a down payment.” He kept his gaze steady. “If you bring us as close to Weigand as possible, and pick us up seventy-two hours later, we’ll give you a handheld that can decrypt the Bureau of Transport’s radio communications.”

Behind him, he felt Gersha going rigid. When Tilrey had asked, _What would a smuggler want that we have?_, Gersha had immediately answered, _Tech_. He’d been the one to pinch the handheld from the Sector’s stores, too. But that didn’t mean he was happy about it. Gersha had accepted the notion of Laborers using tech in theory, but Tilrey suspected it would take him a while to accept it in practice.

With a slow nod, Aurinthal acknowledged they’d made a good choice. “Well, that would be handy. A magic box to help a busy girl keep track of supply shipments. You got it on you?”

“It’s no use to you till I activate it,” Gersha said, tripping over his words. “_If_ I choose to activate it. So don’t get any ideas.”

“Oh, you’re a tough customer, Fir.” Despite the irony dripping from the words, Aurinthal reached over and accepted Tilrey’s vials. “Fine. I’ll find you boys a room for the night—it ain’t gonna be what you’re used to—and tomorrow morning I’ll skim you up into the mountains.” She clasped Tilrey’s hand. “We got an agreement?”

He clasped back, noting with interest that she seemed loath to do her business directly with an Upstart. “We do.”

Aurinthal turned smartly on her heel, leading them back inside. “And if you happen to get ideas about not holding up your end,” she called over her shoulder, “just know I can have patrols out searching the mountain for you in two seconds flat. That’s assuming the Outers don’t get you first.”

As they descended the stairs, Gersha murmured, “Is that how this works? Are we common criminals now?”

Annoyance surged warm in Tilrey’s chest. _More of your scruples?_ He was about to snap back that yes, Dissidents were criminals under Oslov law, when he noticed the slight twinkle in Gersha’s eye. Fir Councillor might not be entirely reconciled to what they were doing, but he was game for it. He was evolving.

Tilrey threw an arm around his husband and whispered in his ear, “I can’t think of a better partner in crime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting back into the groove and will have another chapter of "All Kinds of Broken" up by this weekend, followed by another of this. Steamy chapter comin' up! ;)


	9. Steam

Supervisor Lindtmerán was _cooking_. She was doing it right in front of Vera. First she’d washed the greens, and then she’d stripped the red-veined leaves from their stems, and now she was steaming them in a steel pot over a gas flame.

“I hope this doesn’t seem too odd to you, Fir’n Under-Secretary,” the woman said conversationally, turning a dial. “I’ve always enjoyed having a certain tactile relation to my food, and since we have the greenhouses right here, why not? The rest of the meal will be standard defrosted rations, naturally.”

Vera nodded, trying to look like she’d known you could use a stove for anything more elaborate than brewing hot drinks. Food came in frozen packets, and you microwaved it. Occasionally it was served to you freshly prepared at the Restaurant. Her husband liked to extol the skills of the chefs there, but she never listened to the details.

Vera’s mother claimed Vera’s great-grandmother used to steam her own greens as a way of connecting with their ancestors. Vera had trouble imagining it. But this was Tilrey’s mother, ideally her future mother-in-law, so she needed to keep an open mind. It was a sign of trust that she’d been invited to dinner in the Supervisor’s private apartment, and she wasn’t going to ruin that by being uptight.

“May I touch one?” she asked. “A, uh, an uncooked leaf?”

With a smile, Angelika Lindtmerán separated a raw leaf from the bunch and handed it over. Vera held it in both hands, marveling at how sturdy and almost rubbery the chard was before you stewed it into mush. She traced the path of a vein away from the central stalk.

The apartment was simply and decently appointed; nothing suggested that Lindtmerán was enriching herself via the black market, like some Supervisors you heard about. A wide bank of windows showed Vera only blackness, but at least she knew there was an outside. She knelt beside the table while Lindtmerán removed the pot from the stove and drained it. A few moments later, they sat face to face, each with a bowl—rice and cod with cooked greens on top, looking perfectly normal, if a little less mushy than usual.

“Are you comfortable there, Fir’n? Please sit up on the couch if you prefer.”

“I’m fine—well, actually. Yes, thank you, I’ll sit up there if you don’t mind.” Vera remembered their earlier conversation and hauled herself up onto the couch. Ah, that was much better. Now she just needed to broach her real reason for coming here—by tiny and careful degrees. She came from a family of politicians. She could do this.

“I admit I had some concerns about traveling so close to my due date,” she said, digging into the bowl. “Especially to, uh, a working city. But your medical facility has excellent statistics.”

“If I may boast for a moment, Fir’n, the infant and maternal mortality in this sector is as low as in most facilities in Redda. Our practitioners have excellent training. But I understand your concern, especially during a first pregnancy. During mine, I became so cautious, almost superstitious . . .” Lindtmerán gazed past Vera, a wistful look transforming her sharp features. “But then, my circumstances were unusual. You don’t want to hear me blather on about myself.”

“Please, you’re not blathering!” Vera nearly choked on a stalk in her eagerness to hear more. “I find it helpful, actually. To compare my experience to others’. How many children do you have, Supervisor?”

“Please, call me Lisha, Fir’n. I have one son about your age.”

The woman raised her probing eyes to Vera’s, and for an instant Vera could have sworn she _knew. _But no, of course she didn’t. Couldn’t.

Lindtmerán continued: “I had no more children because I lost my husband twenty weeks into the pregnancy. He was a helicopter pilot; he was killed in a snow squall. That’s why I mentioned unusual circumstances. To have so much anticipation, so much joy, and then to suffer the loss of someone I considered the love of my life—that was a great grief, Fir’n.”

Vera nodded, the food sticking in her throat. Part of her was shocked to hear Lindtmerán describe her despair to a stranger, and a stranger of a different Level at that. It seemed rude to pursue the subject, possibly even rude to listen, but she couldn’t help wanting to know more. “Did you marry for love, then? If you’ll excuse my asking?”

Lindtmerán seemed unbothered by the question. “Very much so, Fir’n. In fact, I was considering sanctioned celibacy when I met Ceill. He was several years younger than I, so we hadn’t known each other at school. He flew me out to inspect the outer greenhouses, and when he saw how frightened I was of flying, he found ways to calm me and make me laugh.” The wistfulness shone in her eyes again. “He was a charming man, Fir’n, one who listened and thought of others. And very handsome.”

Vera could swear the Supervisor was blushing at her own mental picture. Tilrey’s father must have been very like him—the kind of man you lose your head over. _Or I did, anyway. _Her own cheeks warmed, and she said, “May his last moment be bright,” trying to hide her embarrassment with solemnity. “How long were you and Ceill together, Supervis—er, Lisha?”

“Four wonderful years. My parents didn’t like the match because Ceill was R-1, but they wanted a grandchild, and eventually he managed to charm them into forgetting the pride of rank.” Lisha grimaced. “This must sound absurd to you, Fir’n. My parents themselves were only high R-3, but in this city, that puts a person in the governing class. They thought a lot of themselves.”

“I understand.” Vera tried to wrap her mind around what the woman was saying. If Lisha and her parents were the Thurskein equivalent of high Upstarts, then a marriage between her and an R-1 helicopter pilot must have been like—well, almost like a marriage between Vera and Tilrey.

No, no, not like that, because the gulf between Upstart and Laborer was _much _greater than any gap between Laborers could be. But still . . . maybe a little like that. In the limited experience of someone born in ’Skein, of course.

Forcing the cooling rice into her mouth, Vera reminded herself of another salient difference between the two cases: Ceill and Lisha had been in love. Mutually. At least, she preferred to imagine it that way.

That brought warmth back to her cheeks and tears to her eyes. She soldiered through, chewing and swallowing, hoping Lisha thought she was simply affected by the story.

And she _was _affected. Right now she despised Tilrey for his callousness, but—to lose him forever! To know he would never see his son grow up! Just imagining Lisha’s situation made her cringe in sympathy. “I understand now why you were superstitious during the pregnancy. Such a terrible loss would lead to all kinds of new fears.”

“It did, Fir’n.” Tilrey’s mother picked up the raw chard leaf that Vera had examined earlier and began delicately ripping it along a vein. “After we lost Ceill, I was terrified my child wouldn’t be safely delivered. Sometimes I was afraid to take lifts, to climb stairs, even to leave my room. It was an effort to carry on with my daily tasks.”

The words fell heavy on Vera, sinking below her skin, into her flesh, to the place where she felt her child resting so protected and so vulnerable at once. She did not want to understand this Drudge’s irrational fears, but she already did, too well. Similar fears had gripped her when Tilrey tried to convince her their child was doomed to shame and misery.

Why was he so cruel? His mother would never have made such pessimistic predictions. She understood the aching need to protect that was as strong as love itself. Vera cupped her belly without meaning to. She asked, needing to hear Lisha say what she already knew, “But your child _was _safely delivered?”

“Oh yes, Fir’n. Right on the date, strong and healthy and howling.” Lisha rose and cleared their dishes, as if she could tell that Vera needed space alone with her feelings.

_Which I don’t, of course. I’m rational. I rule my feelings, not the other way around. _But Vera was grateful for the older woman’s tact. The baby was kicking now, and she stared straight ahead without blinking, willing her tears to dry and her sensible self to return. She was doing the right thing, the honorable thing. Her feelings for Tilrey had nothing to do with it.

A few minutes later, Lisha returned and passed something to her. “May I show you, Fir’n?”

Vera wasn’t surprised to find herself looking at a photo of Tilrey, cheaply printed on heavy paper. He wore a slate-blue school uniform, and he was no older than seventeen, much slighter than he was now. He was half ducking his head, flashing a shy smile.

It made her ache to see him that way—like he’d been when they first met. Back when he spoke with a strong Thurskein burr—like his mother’s—and was nervous and half-afraid of all Upstarts, even her. Vera stroked the paper, a lump rising in her throat. He’d been so sweet that night long ago in the Southern Range, so innocent and admiring of her every word. When had things changed between them? And why?

_He was miserable that night, _her conscience whispered to her. _He was a prisoner. He reached out to you for friendship, for help, and you mistook that for something else._

The photo slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the table. The baby kicked again.

Vera closed her eyes tight. When she felt a tentative touch on her shoulder, she didn’t pull away.

“Fir’n?” Lisha’s fingers remained where they were, the grip steadying Vera’s breathing. “I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds. Have I upset you?”

_This is your grandchild. _It would be so easy to say it and be done. But the situation was more complicated than Vera had imagined when she and Valgund were visualizing Tilrey’s mother as a doddering old Drudge who would be “dazzled” by her unlikely connection to a Linnett. Lisha might be openly emotional and even sentimental, but she was also strong-willed and a career politician—a personality type Vera knew well. She had no doubt that everything Lisha expressed had at least a modicum of calculation behind it.

If Vera didn’t tell her, the woman might start making guesses about her motives, and soon. Well, let her guess. Vera could be strong-willed, too, in ways only a Linnett could be.

She opened her eyes. “You haven’t upset me. I wish you would call me Vera, though.”

Lisha patted her shoulder and withdrew. “You honor me, Vera.”

_You don’t sound especially honored. Do you feel it? _“You took me a bit by surprise,” Vera went on, starting with a small piece of the truth. “You see, I know your son in Redda.”

“Do you, Fir’n—Vera?” She sounded genuinely startled. “How did you meet?”

Vera wondered how much Tilrey had told his mother about his dark early years in the city. That wasn’t her story to tell. “We met some time ago,” she said. “My husband and I move in the same circles as Gersha—I mean Councillor Gádden.”

Lisha knelt again facing Vera across the table. Her smile was gentle, yet it illuminated her whole face. “Councillor Gádden sometimes honors us with his presence. I think he and my son are very happy together.”

The words stabbed Vera’s heart, but only for an instant. The woman was simply voicing what they both knew.

Alone with the awareness of rejection, Vera had cursed Tilrey and herself. But now she felt the first whispers of resignation settling like a warm blanket on her shoulders. If Lisha could endure Ceill’s sudden death, surely she could endure the fact that Tilrey, while very alive, didn’t love her. Maybe she could even get over it . . . one day.

“I think they are happy,” she said. “Very happy indeed.”

***

“Are you unhappy, love?” Tilrey asked, sprawled out on the metal-framed bunk in the miserable cubby of a single room that Aurinthal had given them for the night. “When you asked to come along, this probably wasn’t what you had in mind.”

Gersha huffed dismissively and tugged off his functionary’s tunic. “You’ve forgotten how humble our accommodations sometimes were in Harbour. This is nothing compared with that hayloft.”

“I don’t just mean that.” Tilrey peeled off his shirt and tossed it on the floor, something he never would have done at home. “I mean the sergeant’s cheek. Her accent is pure Keisha—Karkei—and even we ’Skein folk feel superior to people from there. So I’m guessing she never learned how one’s supposed to address Upstarts.”

Gersha hadn’t liked the sergeant’s cheek, indeed, but he didn’t want his husband to know he could still be touchy about such things. “It wasn’t how she disregarded my Level,” he said, stripping to the long underwear he’d worn to weather the cold of the Wastes. “What do I care? But all her winking and nudging—well, I don’t like being treated like a common criminal.”

Naked except for his briefs, Tilrey reached out. Gersha caught the hand and let himself be pulled down onto the bunk, the speed and strength of Tilrey’s movement waking a familiar heat and tingle in his groin.

“We are criminals, sweetheart,” Tilrey said, drawing Gersha into the shelter of his arms. “Just not common ones.”

It felt good here. Gersha closed his eyes against the pallid fluorescents and snuggled into his husband’s warmth. He supposed he’d become a criminal the moment he hacked Tilrey’s ankle tracker in Harbour. No, even before that, the moment he learned of Tilrey’s Dissidence and didn’t turn him in. He’d earned exile many times over. He just didn’t want to _think _about it.

“Wouldn’t this be a terrible place to have conjugal relations?” he asked, feeling his heart begin to thud in anticipation. He couldn’t help being reminded of the little room in the Southern Hearth where they’d whiled away hours he would remember for the rest of his life.

A low laugh told him Tilrey had the same thought. “The worst.”

Gersha inched himself up until he could feel Tilrey’s arousal against his cleft, then eased back and began rutting against the stiff cock, the friction engorging his own erection. “I hope you don’t mean that.”

“Why do you think I took off all my clothes even though I’m fucking freezing?”

Gersha kept moving, squeezing his eyes shut as an eager shudder moved down his spine. “Tell me something,” he said. “Why do you always fold your clothes so neatly at home, even when you can’t wait to fuck me?”

Tilrey gasped, his body answering the rhythmic motion as his arms tightened possessively around Gersha. “It’s actually your turn,” he whispered hoarsely, his hair tickling Gersha’s ear. “To fuck me, I mean. And hard.”

Gersha moaned, twisting as his lips sought Tilrey’s. He felt restrained in these strong arms, but in a good way. He felt safe. And now Tilrey’s hand found his own cock and worked it skillfully through the long johns, making his whole body throb with need.

When they kissed, it was sloppy and a little rough. Tilrey caught Gersha’s bottom lip smartly between his teeth and released it. “I mean it,” he hissed, tangling a hand in Gersha’s hair. “I want you to use me like I’m still your piece, _Fir_. Fast and hard. Get your own back for all the disrespect you endured today.”

_I don’t want to “get my own back.” I don’t need that. _But Gersha was starting to understand that when Tilrey made this particular request, it was something he had his own reasons for wanting. He might frame it as a reversion to their old roles, but it was more than that, something that went back further in Tilrey’s past.

“I _was_ rather disrespected,” Gersha managed to articulate between two ferocious kisses. “Not just by the sergeant, but by you. You kept butting in front of me and taking control of the situation.”

He made his voice querulous and theatrically offended. This was a test. If Tilrey took the reproach seriously and put a halt to the lovemaking, then Gersha would immediately drop his role and tell the truth: He wasn’t the least bit bothered by Tilrey’s taking control, not anymore. If anything, today had proved (once again) that Tilrey could handle these situations better than he could.

Did Tilrey know he felt that way? He hoped so. He could handle a little role-playing as long as they were clear on reality.

Tilrey groaned with palpable excitement. He worked Gersha’s cock harder, bending to nip his shoulder. “I did take control, Fir, and that was wrong. I always ruin things when I take control.”

_You don’t, and we both know it. _But Gersha was starting to understand the game, even though Tilrey’s clever motions kept fraying his thoughts to ribbons. Lowering his voice to a growl, he said, “You need to be put in your rightful place, lad.” And then, feeling devilishly inspired: “We both know where that is—under me, getting the fuck of your life.”

Tilrey went still, trembling with eagerness or fear or both, his stubbled cheek rough against Gersha’s neck. Gersha was all ready to start apologizing when his husband spoke up again, somehow meek and demanding at once: “Show me, Fir. Show me my place.”

That _was _hot, hotter than he wanted it to be. Gersha took a deep breath, gathering his strength. Then he rolled backward, trapping Tilrey under him. Ignoring Tilrey’s surprised grunt, he twisted so they were face to face, pinning Tilrey’s arms above his head. The slightest hint of reluctance or resistance, he promised himself, and this would stop.

No need to worry. Tilrey let his head fall backward and his back arch, his hard cock stabbing Gersha’s hip. “Please, Fir, take me.” He closed his eyes.

Gersha was almost ashamed of how eagerly his own cock responded to the show of submission. But the way Tilrey shivered and squirmed under him was . . . intoxicating. “Are you _sure _you want a hard fuck?” he asked, keeping a firm grip on Tilrey’s wrists. “Are you sure you can take it?”

“I don’t break, Fir.” Another delicious wiggling motion. “Unless you want to _try_ to break me . . .”

Green hells, Gersha’s heart was pounding madly, and his skin felt itchy-tight. Where the fuck was the lube? “Stay right there,” he ordered, releasing Tilrey so he could get up and search the neat little bag of toiletries he’d brought.

It wasn’t so neat by the time he returned to bed. Tilrey remained where Gersha had put him, on his back with his hands clasped above his head. At Gersha’s approach, though, he rolled over and spread his thighs, raising his hips invitingly. “_Hurt _me, Fir,” he said in a low, throbbing voice. “Show me who’s in control.”

Gersha was shaking so much he could barely twist the cap off the tube. He dropped the cap and let it roll away. His finger trembled as he worked the lube inside Tilrey, trying to be gentle even as Tilrey bucked his hips to take it faster.

“Be careful.” Gersha smacked an ass-cheek as lightly as he could. “We’re going at _my _pace, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Yes, Fir. Of course, Fir.” Tilrey was up on all fours, his head still drooping submissively. “But I can take your cock any time. I _want _you.” He broke off, writhing again, as Gersha’s second finger penetrated him. “I’ll be still and quiet for you if you like. I promise.”

“I don’t want still and quiet.” Gersha worked both fingers in and out before gingerly adding a third. Each quiver from Tilrey woke an echo in his own body. His pulse was hammering, his nerve endings raw, his cock desperate for stimulation. If he moved too rashly, rutting up against that muscled flank, he might come at once with minimal contact.

_Control. _He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them. He focused deliberately not on the prostrate body beneath him, all sinews and pale-gold skin, but on the iron bed-frame and the bleary lighting. What a horrible, degraded place for lovemaking this was. Except this wasn’t lovemaking, was it? It was punishment. Or perhaps the exact opposite: He was giving his husband a gift.

Trying to believe that, he withdrew his fingers with a wet sucking sound and mounted Tilrey, not letting his erection bump prematurely against that beautiful ass. He got a brutal grip on his cock and lined himself up, threading the fingers of his free hand in Tilrey’s hair to press him down. _Control him. Control yourself._

“Please, Fir.”

Gersha ploughed into him with a ragged stroke, deeper than he’d intended. The heat and tightness felt so good that he went still inside Tilrey’s body, eyes squeezed shut, willing himself not to end this before it properly began.

When he returned to himself, Tilrey was frozen under him as if in pain. Gersha opened his mouth to apologize, but something had hold of him. Instead of withdrawing, his hips began thrusting of their own accord—in and out, finding a rhythm, driving his cock a little deeper each time.

Tilrey grunted harshly and then relaxed, his knees braced and his hips rising to take the breach. “Green hells,” he breathed into the pillow. “Break me open. Have me.”

_What the fuck am I doing? _But the small voice inside Gersha was no match for the tempest of stimulation on his nerve endings. When Tilrey reared up under him as if to throw him off, he forgot his promise and shoved his husband roughly back down. The passage tightened around his cock, and he cried out and thrust ruthlessly until his balls were flush against that taunting ass. “How’s that?” he managed.

Tilrey was clutching the pillow, knuckles white. His face was contorted, but he said, “More. Please.”

Like a parachutist stepping from the plane, Gersha was past the point of no return. He drew back and thrust again and again, finding a punishing rhythm that dried up his breath in his throat. The room was a blur of light and shadow, nothing real except the iron vise of need on his cock, narrowing and narrowing until he thought his head and heart would burst from the pressure.

And then he let go and released the warm gush of his orgasm, bracing himself on the bed with both hands, pressing his lips to Tilrey’s shoulder and tasting the marine tang of skin.

For a long time he floated, dimly aware that his body had gone limp, his cheek pillowed against a ridge of muscle. The reckless pulse in his temples had quieted, and a delicious drowsiness spread over him like the warmth of a sauna. It would be nice to turn over and be cradled in Tilrey’s arms, but his waterlogged body wouldn’t budge. The surface under him was hard and soft at once, rising and falling, the gentle motion rocking him to sleep—

And then he was sitting bolt upright. Something had woken him—a jerk or twitch. He rolled off Tilrey, contrite as he realized how cramped his own muscles were. “I’m sorry, love. That was rude of me.”

“No worries. I didn’t want to wake you.” Tilrey rolled over, wincing, then sat up and stretched. “You should be resting up for tomorrow.”

His husband’s cock had gone soft, Gersha saw with another pang of guilt. “I didn’t even—” He reached for it, meaning to finish the sentence with meaningful action, but Tilrey batted his hand away. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not, though. You know how I feel about that.”

“Oh, I know how you feel, _Fir_.” Tilrey leaned against the wall with a yawn, his use of the honorific half-sarcastic now. “Come over here and get me off, then, if you insist.”

He took the sting out of the words by extending his arms. Gersha settled himself in Tilrey’s lap and let himself be cradled the way he’d wanted earlier. He rutted his hips until Tilrey groaned, his cock demonstrating an answering hardness. Then Gersha slid himself sideways, got a businesslike grip, and began to pump Tilrey with unhurried strokes, easing his husband toward completion.

“Was that what you wanted?” he asked between Tilrey’s long, shuddering breaths. “I mean, did I do it right? Toward the end, I lost control. I didn’t really want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me.” Tilrey’s hips moved in sync with Gersha’s hand, one arm twined around Gersha’s waist. Gersha smelled sweat-damp hair. Tilrey added, “I’m not—”

“Breakable. Right. That’s what you always say. Be honest, though.”

The next stroke made Tilrey’s whole body quiver. He closed his hand over Gersha’s moving one, their slick fingers sliding together. “It hurt, and it was good. I liked how you took control. And then lost it. I like that feeling of being broken, being made to take it. Does that bother you?”

A few hours ago, Gersha might have said yes. But right now—well, right now he just tightened his grip on the hot, engorged flesh. “Making you happy could never bother me.”

For a few minutes there were no words, only the gasps and grunts of their joint exertions. Then Tilrey found release, back arching and neck straining, the warm seed spattering Gersha’s chest as well as his own.

As his husband’s breathing leveled off, Gersha eased himself out of Tilrey’s arms and went to find a warm cloth to clean them both. When he returned, Tilrey had rolled onto his side. He twitched at Gersha’s gentle touch but didn’t open his eyes.

“Mmm,” he said as Gersha lay down beside him. “You asked about my clothes before—why I always fold them, even in the heat of passion.”

Gersha had forgotten. He nestled back against Tilrey’s collarbone, protected by the arms that reached out to hold him fast. “So, why do you?”

Tilrey planted a kiss on his forehead. “Malsha taught me to do that. He said folding one’s clothes is a way to show respect for the people who manufacture and launder them.”

Gersha laughed and then decided it wasn’t funny. “And this was the same man who thought nothing of tossing a missile at Harbour.”

“He had an odd mind.” Tilrey nuzzled Gersha’s curls. “Has. I don’t know for sure if he’s still alive, though I imagine so. Anyway, he told me that once, and I never forgot it. That was true of a few too many things.”

The words made a vertiginous space open in Gersha’s chest. He felt tender and furious at once, his hands fisting on nothing, as he thought of the old sadist giving Tilrey orders, molding his young mind.

But if Tilrey wanted to talk about Malsha now, maybe that was good for him. Gersha tried to think of something neutrally supportive to say, but all that came out was “If he is still alive, I’d like to strangle him.”

It was Tilrey’s turn to laugh now. “You’re gorgeous when you’re angry, love. But will you promise me you’ll try to keep your temper with Artur?”

Gersha had been doing his best not to think too much about the man they’d come here to meet. Artur Threindal was an exile, an outlaw, formerly a henchman of Malsha’s and now of Colonel Thibault’s. He didn’t sound particularly redeemable. “Of course not,” Gersha said gruffly. “I wouldn’t jeopardize the mission. But . . . will Threindal make me angry?”

A large hand stroked his curls back from his forehead. “Not on purpose. Artur knows how to treat Upstarts with deference, and he _will _know you’re high-named. He may even recognize you. He didn’t spend all those years in the Sector and Malsha’s company for nothing.”

Gersha felt a prickle of foreboding. A thought made his throat close: “Did you and Artur—?”

Long ago, Malsha had tried to set up a threesome with Gersha and Tilrey, as Gersha remembered all too well. It hadn’t gone anywhere, of course, but—Artur Threindal had been Malsha’s secretary. Maybe the Magistrate had shared his kettle boy with _him_. And back then, Tilrey hadn’t been able to refuse anyone.

“Shh. Sweetheart.” Another soothing touch. “You aren’t seriously jealous of someone I haven’t seen in ten years?”

Gersha hid his burning face against Tilrey’s chest. “I’m not jealous, I swear. I know you’ve been with . . . plenty of people. By choice and not. I guess I’d just like to know before we’re face to face with him. Was he a lover? Or was he someone who hurt you?”

“Neither.” Tilrey patted Gersha’s flank. “Artur was a good friend to me, or as good as he could be. Someone who taught me the ropes, you could say. He fucked me once, but that wasn’t his idea any more than it was mine.”

Gersha blinked, trying not to let the words sting. He couldn’t imagine being _ordered_ to give his body to someone, even a friend, while the person who’d given the order just sat there and watched—had Malsha watched? Probably.

Tilrey went on: “The thing is, when Artur looks at me, he won’t see what you see. He’ll see what I was, and he may sound patronizing when he talks to me. That’s why I ask you not to take offense.”

“I won’t lose my temper.” Gersha reminded himself he’d spent years watching his colleagues treat Tilrey poorly—and what had he done about it? Not enough. His fists clenched. “But I hope, Rishka—well, I hope you won’t just stand there and let Threindal treat you like someone you aren’t anymore. I know how good you are at letting things slide off you, but you don’t have to. Green hells, what you managed in the Southern Hearth with Ranek . . .” He sighed in mingled admiration and exasperation. “You have power, sweetheart. Why not own it?”

Realizing the words might be taken as a condemnation of what they’d done tonight, he reached for Tilrey’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I mean, except when you choose to give up the power, of course. I understand that. Well, I’m starting to.”

Tilrey’s body had tensed, but he released the tightness in a sigh. “Old habits, Gersha. I have a lot of those. Like folding my clothes.”

“I know.” Gersha was uncomfortably aware of his own old habits—pulling rank, bridling at disrespect, being inflexible. “I don’t mean to reproach you,” he murmured, curling himself tighter into the warmth of his husband’s arms. “You’re in charge of this expedition, love. Whatever you need to do, you do.”

Tilrey’s hand moved in Gersha’s hair. “No, you have a point. When we were in the Southern Hearth, the whole equality thing was hard for me, too. I feel more comfortable when I can fall back on being deferent. And Besha also has a point—if I’m going to be part of this revolution, I need to stake out my place in it. That’s the only way I can be sure you’re protected.”

He kissed Gersha’s brow and said with gentle irony, “For your sake, love, maybe I can learn to speak up for myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a tough chapter, but I liked writing it. People growing, changing, talking about their feelings, AND having sexytimes—that's my jam. :) Hope you enjoyed it, too.
> 
> The name "Ceill" is pronounced with a hard C, like those kale greens that Lisha enjoys. Yes, I am mentioning this because the name will come up again. ;)


	10. The Hike

Gersha clung to Tilrey’s waist for dear life, his stomach flipping as the skimmer sped up. Snow lashed his face, wind ripping past his ears, and he was sure any moment he’d lose his grip and be tossed high in the air like a doll.

“Open your eyes!” Tilrey shouted. “Need to see this!”

Gersha groaned, but he forced his eyes open. _Too blue. Too white. _The sky was cloudless. Sunlight glared blindingly off a seemingly endless snowfield. Far in the distance, dark shapes like jagged teeth rose absurdly high, boxing in the horizon: the mountains. They were going there.

Frosty flakes stung Gersha’s lashes, and he closed his eyes again with a grunt. He hadn’t known snow skimmers were this small or this exposed to the elements. “I see!”

The engine whined as Sergeant Aurinthal, perched at the wheel, down-shifted and angled them right. “Twenty minutes!” she yelled hoarsely through the wind. “You can get there before dusk.”

Verdant hells, Gersha hoped so. The thought of hiking this tundra or those mountains in the dark made shivers run down his spine.

He reminded himself of all the high-tech layers they both wore. Tilrey had gotten them something classified as “military expedition-wear,” plus two backpacks full of hand-warmers, dehydrated food, and other emergency supplies. They had a radio tuned to a frequency that Aurinthal had promised to monitor. More importantly, they were Oslovs on official Oslov territory. Everything about this trek was _much _safer than his wild pursuit of Tilrey in Harbour.

But . . . the cold was savage, closing around them like a giant fist. The sky was too empty, the mountains brutally sharp and high. Harbour was dangerous, but it was green and hospitable, too. He couldn’t shake a sense that people weren’t meant to be out here.

By the time the skimmer skidded to a halt, Gersha’s stomach felt like it had been turned inside out and shaken. His fingers were numb from gripping Tilrey’s coat. He slid off and floundered into the snow, keeping his head low to force the contents of his stomach back down.

Tilrey was beside him at once, an arm around him. “That was a little wild, wasn’t it?”

Gersha nodded, shaky legs readjusting to solid ground. Tilrey’s touch woke memories of last night, when they’d drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms. Why couldn’t they have stayed in that narrow, uncomfortable bed instead of coming out here? “Fine,” he managed, raising his head.

He saw why they’d stopped. A few meters to the north, the sloping snowfield ended abruptly, giving way to an apron of reddish rock that rose precipitously toward the crags on the horizon. The mountains were suddenly much closer, _too _close, looming over them and obscuring the whole northern sky. A small cairn marked what must be the head of a trail. But if human feet had worn a path there, it was invisible under the patchy snow cover.

Sergeant Aurinthal sat straddling the skimmer, regarding them quizzically. “Your Fir up for this?” she asked Tilrey. “I can bring him back to base if he wants, but it’s gotta be now.”

She gestured to the east, where an enormous, iron-gray cloud bank now smudged the horizon. “Storm’s coming, but it’s not forecast to hit for a few hours. Long as you get to Weigand by dark, no worries.”

It was just past noon, but the specter of darkness was nothing to ignore. They’d set out before dawn; this time of year, the sun spent barely three hours above the horizon.

As Tilrey turned to Gersha with a furrowed brow, Gersha knew what was coming. And sure enough, in a tone pitched low for privacy, Tilrey asked, “_Are _you up for this? If you want to go back, I’ll be fine. Promise.”

What Gersha wanted was for them _both _to return to base, but if Tilrey insisted on doing this, he wasn’t doing it alone. Standing on his own now, Gersha sucked in the frigid air. It was bracing, already chasing away his nausea. “You know I get motion-sick. I just need to walk it off.”

“Best get going,” the sergeant called.

Tilrey scrutinized Gersha for a moment more, then slapped him on the back. “Just a few kilometers. We hike this far in the Southern Range all the time.”

_But not up a mountain. _Gersha kept that part to himself. Hoping for some purchase on the situation, he fished his handheld out of his pack with tingling fingers and asked the sergeant, “Do you have coordinates for our destination?”

“Sure.” She rattled them off. As Gersha entered them, however, she added, “Not that it’s gonna help, probably. Reception out here is shit without military-grade equipment.”

Gersha stared at his screen in dismay. “What about our radio reception?”

“Should be decent when it’s clear, but don’t count on it during the storm. You won’t need directions, though. Follow the cairns—and the Ceiralt Wall, once you reach it. It’ll bring you all the way to Weigand. Lot of folks come this way through the pass.”

_What if some of the cairns are missing? _“We’ll see you right here in seventy-two hours, then,” Gersha said firmly, trying to ignore the itch of dread in his gut.

Aurinthal kicked her engine into gear. “And then I get my magic box, Fir?”

“Then you get your magic box.” Gersha ordered his nerves to take a break. If he was going to whine and be difficult, he shouldn’t have come at all.

Aurinthal saluted and pulled the skimmer around, taking the U-turn so fast it was a wonder she didn’t slide off. She accelerated back the way they’d come, the electric motor buzzing, kicking up a cloud of snow that stung their exposed cheeks. “See ya, lads!”

The skimmer took only a few seconds to become a black spot on the southern horizon, its two fat ski runners finding easy purchase on the snow. To the west, the sun sat low, washing the tips of the seaward mountains orange. Color had begun draining rapidly from the tundra, casting everything in ghostly gray.

Gersha swung the pack onto his shoulders, willing himself not to fret. “You heard what she said. Let’s get going.”

They made good time up the rocky slope, stopping only occasionally to gulp hot tea from their thermoses. To Gersha’s relief, the cairns were evenly spaced and well maintained. After taking a zigzag course across a field strewn with boulders—some of them disturbingly huge—the trail veered over to follow the foot of a steep cliff. This must be the Ceiralt Wall.

As the cliff got taller, the trail got steeper, winding between boulders and sometimes requiring them to scramble up a sheer escarpment on their hands and knees. The field they’d crossed by skimmer was far below, swathed in blue shadow like another world.

Gersha forced himself to focus on each step and look only at the path, not at the precipices that kept opening up to his right. Blood thudded in his ears—this was like climbing ten staircases in a row. He wasn’t as sure-footed as Tilrey, and he was happy to let his husband go first and grateful for the steady hand often extended to help him up.

Feeling out footholds around the edge of a massive cylinder of rock, he heard Tilrey yell above him, “The sea!”

Gersha clambered up as quickly as he could. Almost flat, the top of the rock afforded them a dizzying view to the north and east. His head spun, and he caught Tilrey’s hand for balance. The world below was a jumbled wilderness of spires and crags and snow and debris. And beyond all that—sullen glimmers on sea ice.

They were high enough now to see over a forbidding ridge to where the ice sheet stretched flat until it gave way to the heave of black water. Did the air smell of salt, or was that Gersha’s imagination? He’d seen the ocean before, but only from thousands of meters in the air. This was different: all that living, crawling turbulence responding to the same wind that whipped his curls out of his hood.

To his surprise, he didn’t feel fear anymore, only a strange energy and eagerness to go on. The view made everything seem reachable. The path before them leveled out onto a plateau, though there were still no signs of a village.

The sun had set, the sky still pale, but dusk was spreading from the east. Gersha squeezed Tilrey’s gloved hand. “Let’s go. We must be close.”

As the whole landscape turned sapphire blue, swallowing the glint of the ocean, flurries of small, dry flakes began to sting their cheeks. Tilrey fitted a headlamp under his hood and passed one to Gersha. “There’s the next cairn.”

Gersha was tempted to take out his handheld and track their progress, but there was no time. Feeling the dark at their backs like a living thing, he hurried to keep up with Tilrey’s long strides. The wind was picking up, wailing overhead and hissing through crevices, and at one point he thought he heard a distant _hoo-hoo. _“Owls don’t live out here, do they?” he asked.

“Owls are woodland birds, I think.” Tilrey took his hand as if they were strolling through the woods of the Southern Range. “Are you thinking of the saga of Vodion and Válya?”

“Kind of,” Gersha admitted. “When I was little, my mother used it to warn me not to wander too far in the woods.”

Tilrey laughed, but he sounded a little nervous himself. “Or what? A giant owl would hold you down and use its beak to drip sap into your mouth?”

It _did _sound ridiculous, the old Feudal myth of how Oslovs discovered sap. “She had a vivid way of telling it,” Gersha said, shivering as he remembered how his mother built the tension of the story. She knew he was bored by the war between Vodion’s and Válya’s clans, so she always skipped to the exciting part.

Vodion’s clan was slaughtered, and he was enslaved by Válya’s father. In her clan’s dark warren of caves, they fell in love. During a snowstorm, Vodion escaped into the forest, and there he met the Owl King.

Gersha’s voice became halting as he told Tilrey how his mom had described that encounter with the supernatural, adding her own gruesome details. An enormous feathered body sat on Vodion’s chest, pinning him down. A sharp beak tore his lips open, lacerating them, sending blood gushing down his chin. Something sweet and sticky was forced down his throat, but the more he swallowed, the more strangely calm he became.

And so Vodion was the first Oslov ever to be sweet-drowned. When he was caught and re-enslaved, he had scars that would never heal and a powerful secret. He showed Válya’s father how to harvest sap from the muirthorn pine. The warriors of the clan drank too much of their new treasure and collapsed in the snow, sweet-drowned, where they froze to death. Vodion and Válya escaped together to freedom, while the _hoo-hoo _of the Owl King resounded in the black firs around them.

“Ironic how much my mother liked that story,” Gersha said, relieved to spot the next cairn through the thickening snow, “given that she was addicted herself.”

“Maybe that’s why she told it. Because it put her struggle in a grander, mythic context. The blessing and curse of all Oslovs.”

“That wasn’t the part she emphasized, though. It was the Owl King. I had nightmares about him for years.” Gersha sucked in a breath; if they fell silent, he’d have to think about the snow that was rapidly covering the cairns. Where was the fucking town?

“In those dreams,” he continued, raising his voice above the wind, “I was walking alone on a forest path when I heard a flutter of wings and an owl’s cry. The Owl King landed on my chest—so heavy. When he began tearing my lips open, I woke.”

Tilrey said something about sleep paralysis, but it was lost in the gale. The plateau had ended. They were climbing sharply again, the Ceiralt Wall still looming high above them. The snow made it hard to find their footing on the slick rock beneath. Gersha slipped and teetered on a ledge, his arms flailing as his heart leapt into his throat.

Tilrey grabbed hold of his hood, trawling him back in. Below the headlamp, his face was all shadow as he shouted, “Walk first from now on. And if any owls come after you, king or otherwise, I’ll chase them away with rocks.”

“I don’t doubt it.” But the laughter died in Gersha’s throat. Squinting through the soupy gray, he asked, “Where’s the next cairn?”

***

Tilrey wanted to make everything okay. To slap Gersha on the back and point through the flying flakes and say, “Right there—maybe your old eyes need glasses.”

But he couldn’t find the next cairn, either. In seconds, the air had become mostly snow, the world an indistinct whirl of icy particles. Whiteness reflected the beam of his headlamp and glared in his eyes, making him grunt and pull the thing off. That barely helped.

Shouldn’t they be in the village by now? “It’s a squall. It’ll pass,” Tilrey said with more confidence than he felt, suddenly acutely aware of his lack of mountaineering expertise. “She said the real storm was hours off. Where’s the cliff? We can shelter against it.”

He wound an arm around Gersha’s waist and set out cautiously in the direction he hoped was west, the other arm stretched in front of him. To his relief, his fingers met solid stone. He pressed his back against the cliff and sank into a crouch, guiding Gersha down beside him. “We’ve got supplies, sweetheart. We’ll be okay.”

“I know. Not worried.” But Gersha’s teeth were chattering.

_Shit. _Tilrey tugged out his thermos and raised it to Gersha’s lips, trying to remember all those childhood lessons about frostbite and hypothermia. “Drink,” he ordered, silencing Gersha’s protests.

When Gersha had drunk, Tilrey picked up his husband’s gloved hands and rubbed them vigorously between his. “What about your toes? Are they numb?”

“They’ll be f-f-fine when I walk.” Gersha grimaced into the white-out, which had shrunk their world to each other’s warm breath and shadowy faces. “We are going to walk?

“Of course. Soon.” Abruptly Tilrey remembered the coordinates Gersha had plugged into his handheld. “Turn around.” He unzipped Gersha’s pack and yanked out the device. “Maybe we can get our bearings. What’s your passcode? I don’t want you taking your gloves off.”

“I can do it!” But Gersha was still wiggling blood back into his fingers. Dropping his gaze, he gave up and told Tilrey the precious code in a voice that could barely be heard over the storm.

_No more secrets between us. _Tilrey entered the code and found the device still receiving a very weak signal. The image flickered, updating, and suddenly the dot that marked their location was almost on top of the marker that Gersha had entered earlier.

“We’re there! Or nearly there!” A burst of adrenaline sent him to his feet. “She said to follow the wall all the way. We just have to stay right up against it.”

But when Tilrey turned to help Gersha up, he found his husband huddled tightly against the cliff with his arms wrapped around his chest. “You go,” Gersha shouted through the wind. “Come back with help. Be okay here. I’m . . . my feet. So numb. They won’t hold me.”

Tilrey didn’t think twice about it. Remembering how Gavril and Krisha had extricated him when he stepped in the bear trap, he knelt to wedge a shoulder under Gersha’s arm. He took a deep, sharp breath and hauled Gersha to his feet, staggering a little. But he could manage. All those hours of bench-presses had to be good for something, right?

“You’ll fall,” Gersha cried, but Tilrey had no intention of falling. The white-out filled his eyes and ears with static, so he focused on a dark piece of exposed rock and willed himself to balance.

Once he had his bearings, he took a labored step, one hand clutching at the rock face while the other steadied Gersha’s weight on top of him. Yes. It wasn’t so bad.

Gersha continued to object faintly at intervals: He was too heavy; it made more sense to leave him. Tilrey had no breath to argue, so he shut out his husband’s voice and put one foot in front of the other.

One step. Breathe in. Two steps. Breathe out. A pause to lean on the wall and regain his balance, and now it was time for step three. _Breathe in_. If Krisha could do this for Tilrey, surely Tilrey could do it for Gersha, who was so much lighter. Krisha and he had been friends at best, while Gersha—well, he couldn’t lose him. Not now, not in this stupid way.

The wind howled, and flakes whipped his face. The gale weaponized them, each gust freezing and singeing at once. Snow beaded on his eyelashes and blurred his vision. Unable to spare a hand, Tilrey blinked the drips away; it wasn’t like he could see anything anyway. The world had narrowed to Gersha’s weight on his back and the slick rock wall and the punishing incline that forced his breath into a painful rhythm.

On the thirty-first step, his shoulder gave out. He just managed to slide Gersha safely off him, into a sitting position against the wall, before he collapsed. His delts burned, and he needed to catch his breath, but he’d be up again in a sec. He tried to say as much to Gersha, but the words came out in a gasp.

“It’s okay, Rishka.” Gersha’s arms folded around him, pulling him back against the cliff, out of the wind. “Rest. I’ll be fine. Where are the hand-warmer things?”

The hand warmers—how had he forgotten those? Why was he so stupid? Tilrey tugged himself free and grabbed Gersha’s pack, but his own numb fingers refused to close on the zipper. He tried to use his teeth, but they were chattering.

_That isn’t happening. You can do this. _He slumped against the wall and rubbed his hands fiercely, willing the blood to flow. _We’re almost there. We’re almost fucking there._

“Tilrey!” Gersha’s voice was hoarse. “Light. Up there. Moving!”

Tilrey’s brain was too sluggish to process the words; all he could think about was the warmers. But then he saw the light—a yellowish beam bobbing just up the hill. And he heard a voice, deeper than Gersha’s, call in Oslov, “Coming to you!”

_Thank everything green. _Tilrey had just enough life in his fingers to seize Gersha’s and start rubbing again. “We’re here!” he bellowed.

The words were lost in the wind. But the next thing he knew, he and Gersha were being yanked apart, and someone was pulling Tilrey to his feet. He struggled—where was Gersha?

A woman’s accented voice said, “We’re saving you, idiot. We’re taking you to the town.” She sounded like a Harbourer, but Tilrey had no time to think about that. He’d caught sight of the other rescuer, tall and male, hauling Gersha up the slope.

Both strangers wore heavy dirty-white parkas, probably manufactured in Oslov factories. But law-abiding Oslovs didn’t live out here. Visions of ruthless Outers and outlaws danced in Tilrey’s head as he caught up and cut around in front of Gersha’s—rescuer? Captor?

Breathless, he said, “We’re guests of Artur Threindal.”

The stranger wore a heavy reddish beard that no Oslov citizen would be caught dead with—the beard of an Outer. But his sharp eyes were familiar. Tilrey stopped dead, the breath freezing in his throat.

“So you’re inviting yourself in, are you?” the man asked. His accent was Reddan, his wry amusement as familiar as his gaze.

And then, without warning, he lurched forward and hugged Tilrey with his free arm, drawing the three of them into a shivering huddle. “Green hells, look at you, Rishka,” he said. “All grown up. Let’s get you both safe inside, and then you can tell me what the fuck you’re doing here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist putting a bit of Oslov/Feudal mythology in this chapter. Thanks for reading, and if you're weathering an early storm today, stay warm!


	11. Coming Clean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which someone does come clean and someone doesn't. But a reckoning is fast approaching. Thank you to Fair_Feather_Friend for helping me think out this Vera situation! And thank you to swater64 for making me think more deeply about Gersha and Tilrey and the issue of empathy. You're both giving me ideas I hope to explore in future chapters.

All the sewing machines were going at once, buzzing fiercely under the fluorescents. The room smelled like electricity, starch, and busyness. The ceiling was so high, no windows anywhere. Where was outside? Vera’s head was starting to spin.

She needed to focus on the young man—what was his name? Mal something. He was asking her to notice the armbands on the workers’ gray coveralls. People with red bands were in the top five percent for productivity and had earned themselves an extra day off each month. The orange bands—

The words blurred together, and suddenly the whole room was swaying. An arm looped around her, surprisingly strong. “Are you all right, Fir’n?”

Vera closed her eyes and took two deep breaths, willing her nerves to settle. He shouldn’t be touching her, and everyone must be staring, but she was grateful for the support. “Fine,” she breathed. “Would you mind . . .?”

Instead of releasing her, Mal led her through the labyrinth of the factory floor, navigating easily around obstacles. Vera saw a few workers glance up, but they looked down again immediately. Whatever Mal was—she still hadn’t figured out his official title—clearly they respected his authority.

“To sit for a few minutes would be lovely,” she managed. “And some water or tea, if you could.”

Mal guided her across a chalky-smelling hallway, through a door, and down onto something soft—a couch. “I’m sorry, Fir’n,” he said. “Three factories in six hours is too much. You must be exhausted.”

“No, no.” Vera drank the water he handed her, trying to recover her composure. She _had _to sit up straight backed. _Don’t show weakness in front of Laborers _was one of the first lessons she’d ever learned. “I appreciate the thorough tour. It’s eye-opening.”

Opposite the couch stood a counter with a sink and electric tea kettle, which Mal filled and plugged it in. Above the counter, children’s drawings hung on a corkboard. They made the room loud and colorful and completely inappropriate—as far as she could tell, this was a break room, not a nursery. But maybe the splash of brightness compensated for the absence of windows.

As if reading her mind, Mal said, “I bet you’re thinking this is all pretty unorthodox, Fir’n. The way we run things.”

A delicate tendril of pain came alive in Vera’s left temple, and she closed her eyes again. “Well, yes, frankly. I can’t help being surprised when you give workers three days off per ten-day, or eight-hour shifts. Whatever you may say about ‘incentives,’ all this idle time goes against decades of research and best practice.”

She opened her eyes and found Mal leaning against the counter, looking straight at her. “And yet we keep meeting and even exceeding our quotas.”

Was he _challenging_ her? “The Bureau of Labor is open to innovation,” Vera said stiffly. “Even when it seems counterintuitive. That’s why I came here—to learn from you.”

The kettle hissed. Mal switched it off and poured water into a tumbler, his pale face reddening in the steam. “_Is _that why you came here, Fir’n?”

“Excuse me?” As he brought the tea over, Vera felt her own face flushing. “What exactly are you asking, young man?” she added, trying to sound as severe as her mother would have.

Instead of demurring, Mal gave her the cup and stepped back, crossing his arms. His gaze didn’t waver. “I’ve had some experience with visitors from Government Sector, Fir’n. They tend to come here for one of two reasons: to fuck us or to fuck us over.”

Vera narrowly managed not to spill tea in her lap. Her temples throbbed, and she forced words through a tight throat. “You’re being incredibly inappropriate. I may have to report you to Supervisor Lindtmerán.”

Mal shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Lisha knows I’m not always a nice boy. But she also knows I care about keeping this sector a good place to live. And I care about her, because she does that. So I gotta ask, Fir’n. Were you sent here to arrange for Lisha’s replacement?”

Vera opened her mouth, closed it. “If that was true, would I tell you?”

“Guess not.” Mal sat down on the opposite end of the couch and smiled with a charm that jarred her. “That’s why I’m asking, Fir’n. Maybe I’m just being naïve, but I’m hoping you’ll be straight with me.”

She couldn’t keep track of his moods. Was he trying to _flirt_? Vera took a brisk sip of her tea and burnt her tongue. She lowered it again, swearing under her breath. “I should not have to state that I didn’t come here under false pretenses. Questioning the integrity of a government functionary isn’t—”

“My place. I know.” The violet eyes stayed fixed on her, though the smile faded. “Like I say, Fir’n, I’ve known a lot of Upstarts. The former Supervisor used to ask me to . . . entertain them.”

“Oh.” Vera’s face burned again. No wonder he was so cheeky if he had seen visitors from Redda in compromising positions. But why was he confessing to being a, a—well, what Tilrey had been? She didn’t particularly like even to think the word.

Mal seemed untroubled by her embarrassment. “Yeah. So, frankly, when it comes to the deference and respect, I’m over it. But I do care about Supervisor Lindtmerán. And I’ve seen that you people can snap your fingers and replace any of us, for any reason.” He narrowed his eyes. “So, please excuse my being boorishly direct, Fir’n, but are you really here to see how Lisha runs Sector Six? Or to put an end to it?”

Vera did _not _owe him an answer, but she was too exasperated not to set him straight. “What have I done to suggest I’m here for some sinister reason? If anything, I’ve been _too _friendly and informal with your Supervisor, and _too _open to learning about her methods. That’s what my superiors would tell me, anyway.”

Mal kept scrutinizing her as if she might have a hidden message in her eyes. “Strutters don’t come here just to learn, Fir’n.”

“No?” Vera remembered what Lisha had said about Gersha “honoring us with his presence.” “What about Councillor Gádden?”

“He’s different.” He broke the gaze, jiggling his knee. “You know Councillor Gádden?”

“A little.” Vera wondered if Mal was ever this rude to Gersha, and whether Gersha cared. “What’s different about him coming here? Because he’s in love with the Supervisor’s son, does that make him acceptable to you?”

“I never said you weren’t ‘acceptable,’ Fir’n!” The word seemed to take Mal aback, but a moment later he recovered himself. “You _do_ seem to know Fir Gádden. Is that why you’re here? To quiz us about him and his visits?”

_Yes. No. _Vera gulped down the cooling tea. She didn’t want to know anything about Gersha and Tilrey’s visits here, because it wasn’t her business, and she wanted to know everything.

Did people here actually trust Gersha? _Like_ him? Or did they only tolerate him for Tilrey’s sake? And did Gersha resent every minute of being in Thurskein, or did he enjoy Lisha’s company as much as she did? It didn’t seem fair that he’d worked his way into the fabric of Tilrey’s life in ways she seemed destined never to do. From the little she knew of Gersha Gádden, he was every bit as proud and uptight as . . . well, as she was.

She plunked the cup on a low table and rose with dignity, supporting herself on the couch’s arm. “My business here has nothing to do with Fir Gádden. His weakness for his secretary is common knowledge in Redda. Now, if you don’t mind, I _have _had a full day. I’d like to lie down.”

***

“I’m fine,” Gersha kept insisting woozily. He lay on a frameless bed in a room walled with stone and ferociously warmed by a woodstove. Cheap stick-on LED lights glowed from the walls and low ceiling. “I’m not hypothermic,” he went on. “Really. My head’s clear. Just tired. Rishka?”

“I’m right here.” Tilrey took Gersha’s hand.

But Artur’s companion, the woman with the Harbourer accent, muscled her way between them. “I need to check for frostbite,” she said, pulling off her parka to reveal red-brown skin, striking features, and a cloud of black hair. “His temperature, too. Turshka, bring more blankets and then make tea.”

While Artur spread rough woven blankets over Gersha, the woman pressed a thermometer into his ear. It was a proper Oslov device, and she seemed to know how to use it, but Tilrey was tense with frustration and worry as he stood back to give them space. “What can I do?”

“Take off your parka, any wet clothes you have. And let her work.” Artur brushed past Tilrey with a reassuring pat on the arm. “Moneta’s trained in medicine. She keeps this whole village healthy.”

“She’s not an _Oslov_,” Tilrey snapped. Green hells, he sounded like Besha now, but how could a Harbourer practice real medicine when they didn’t even have proper electricity? What if Gersha—

“I’m okay. Really.” Gersha was trying to sit up, struggling weakly in Moneta’s grip.

Moneta shot Tilrey a look that practically gave _him_ frostbite. “Lucky for you, your friend is right. His temperature isn’t quite in the danger zone. However, he needs to lie quiet while we warm him up, so I advise you to go help with the tea instead of upsetting him.”

Tilrey knelt by the bed, still shaky from the trek through the storm, afraid to touch Gersha but not willing to leave him. “I need to know he’s okay.”

Moneta eased off one of Gersha’s gloves. “There. Is it still numb? Some tingling? Good.” She swung around to Tilrey, her face hardening. “What sort of fools are you two, coming up here in this weather? At least we knew you were coming, thanks to Sergeant Aurinthal. If we hadn’t, you’d be dead.”

So Aurinthal knew Artur better than she’d let on. But this was no time to worry about who else she might have told. “We’re very grateful,” Tilrey said in Harbourer, softening his tone. “My friend’s welfare is precious to me. We can pay you—”

Moneta interrupted him in Oslov. “You can pay my husband and me by keeping your mouths shut about where you found us. If you don’t—”

“Moneta. Monnie. Please,” Artur said, loping back from the kitchen. He handed Moneta a steaming mug and patted the small of her back, then turned to Tilrey. “Come with me, okay? He’s in good hands. Promise.”

“Go on, sweetheart. I’m okay.” Gersha still sounded a little drowsy, but firm. “You two need to talk anyway. Don’t you?”

“If you’re sure.” Tilrey knew he shouldn’t reveal the nature of their relationship before he’d tested the terrain. But fuck it—the middle of nowhere was no place to be cautious. He bent and kissed Gersha’s forehead. “I’ll be right next door.”

As Tilrey followed Artur into the kitchen, his cheeks warmed, and not just because the room had its own roaring stove. “You and she are married?” he asked in a low voice, trying to change the subject before Artur commented on what he’d just seen. Artur . . . well, Artur had taught Tilrey never to let himself care about a Strutter, and in that time and place, it was a life-saving lesson.

“Yup. Going on eight years.” Artur ushered Tilrey into a seat at the rough-hewn table. The reddish beard that crawled over his lean cheeks made it harder to read his expression than it used to be. Putting the kettle on a small solar-powered campstove (also of Oslov make), he said, “What about you? How long have you been with that Strutter? He’s Per Gádden’s little programmer nephew, isn’t he?”

So much for Gersha’s disguise. “You’ve got a good memory,” Tilrey said sheepishly.

“I’ve got an excellent memory, and Redda’s a small town.” Artur sat down opposite him. “Well, compared to Cleveland, anyway. I imagine you know where I’ve been, since you know where I ended up.”

As his eyes met Tilrey’s, they hardened, the veneer of sociability dropping away. “Who sent you here, Rishka?”

Trained by years at Malsha’s side, Artur had always been good at hiding his feelings. But now, as he kept talking without waiting for Tilrey’s answer, a twitch of the jaw betrayed him. “Have they captured Malsha in Resurgence?” he asked in a voice sharp with foreboding. “Or did he make some sort of deal to return to Oslov? Is that how you knew where to find me?”

“No!” Tilrey could see the toll of fear that a decade as an outlaw and exile had taken on his friend. “Nothing like that. I came here on my own initiative.”

He hastened to explain, as economically as he could, how he’d ended up as Malsha’s guest in Harbour, and how Malsha had told him Artur’s whereabouts. For now, he kept to himself what Malsha had said about Colonel Thibault’s plot, letting Artur think he’d come out of sheer desire to see what had become of his old friend.

Artur listened intently. When the kettle whistled, he jumped up as if a shot had been fired, then laughed weakly as he poured them tea. “Green hills and valleys, Tilrey. The old bastard lured you to Resurgence, and he didn’t find a way to abduct you and make you stay? I mean, I’m happy you escaped his clutches, but I’m almost disappointed in him.”

Tilrey laughed, too, though it was forced. “Malsha knew better than to defy Int/Sec, and he got what he wanted from me. An update on my life, and plenty of chances to make me uncomfortable.”

Artur nodded; he knew Malsha’s pleasures and perversions too well. “So, when Int/Sec debriefed you after the Harbour mission, you didn’t tell them where I am? After he told you? Why the hell not?”

“Why would I give you up to Int/Sec? They might have come up here to see if they could wring any intel out of you.”

Artur was scowling. “It’s never a good idea to hold out on Int/Sec. You could end up in a cell.”

This time Tilrey’s laugh was pure surprise. “You’re my friend.”

“We haven’t seen each other in years. You should have thought of yourself first, Rishka.”

That tone, brotherly and patronizing at once, brought Tilrey back twelve years to the days when they sat together in Malsha’s living room. Over pots of tea, Artur taught him all about Redda—whom to trust, whom to avoid, how to look out for himself.

For an instant, he was that frightened, naïve little Skeinsha again. But only for an instant. “I have ample experience in dealing with Int/Sec,” he said evenly. “Believe me, Turshka, their cells aren’t anything new to me.”

He expected Artur to keep grilling him—how much did he know about Resurgence? How had he learned it? But the older man only slumped back in his chair, gazing at Tilrey with a worried, almost beseeching look.

“What?”

Artur clasped his hands on the table, which was scored with old knife marks. “It’s my fault,” he said in a small voice. “How bad was it, Rishka? How long did they keep you locked up after Malsha left?”

“Less than two ten-days.” Why were they getting into this ancient history? “I’m fine, Artur. It was ten years ago, and how was it your fault? Malsha was the one who decided to betray Oslov and kill thousands of Harbourers in exchange for a retirement home.”

“It shouldn’t have happened. It wasn’t fair to you.” Artur raised his hazel eyes, no defenses or suspicion in them now. “What happened after that? Did the Island . . . take you in?”

Tilrey laughed harshly. “Yeah, Verán gave me a home. There were some rough patches, but after three years, I found a better situation.”

“With that little Gádden?” Artur had lowered his voice. “Or is he your thing on the side? He’s not a power player, and Aurinthal said—”

“I have a patron in the Council. I’m fine.” Tilrey waved the questions away, grateful for Artur’s ignorance of current events in Redda. Not that an exile was likely to pose a danger to Gersha’s position, but Artur was clever and politically savvy, and you never knew. “Gersha and I—well, the important thing is, you can trust him. I vouch for him absolutely.”

Artur just kept looking at him with that faintly pained expression, as if he were more concerned for Tilrey than alarmed for himself. “Do _you _trust him, then?”

“Yes.” Perhaps if he was curt enough, he could stop the questions. “I wouldn’t have let him come with me if I didn’t. I’m not a child anymore, Turshka.”

A russet brow arched. “I can see that. When I met you, you cringed and cowered and had an accent I could cut with a knife. And now—the way you talk and walk and hold your head, I could swear you were Reddan-born. You move like an Upstart, Tilrey. And you have plenty of new skills, like speaking Harbourer and lying to Int/Sec.”

Tilrey tried to explain, but Artur plowed on: “And Gádden’s besotted with you. Any fool can see that. But I have to wonder if you’re overplaying your hand.”

“Excuse me?” Green hells, he hated being underestimated, whether by his old friend or by the True Hearth. It made him want to throw caution to the winds.

“Too many risks, Tilrey. Did you tell Gádden who I am, what I am? He may adore you, but he’s a Strutter from a high-named family, and you know what they—”

Pressure was mounting in Tilrey’s head. “Gersha knows you’re an exile, yes,” he rapped out. “He’s a Dissident. A shirker. And he is one because _I_ recruited him. So please stop acting like I can’t take care of myself.”

For a moment they just sat there letting the words vibrate between them. _What the fuck did I say? _All Tilrey remembered was blistering irritation.

He rubbed his temples, trying to find his way back to the diplomatic approach he was supposed to take. But everything came out sounding belligerent: “If you’re going to start lecturing me now, you’re way too late.”

Artur ran his fingers through his shaggy red hair. Far from angry, he looked at sea again. “Me lecture you? I worked for a traitor. I live in exile. I have two kids with my Harbourer wife.”

“Kids?” Tilrey peered around the kitchen. As far as he could tell, the house only had the two rooms.

“They’re sleeping in the guest room—or pantry, really.” Artur pointed at a low door that Tilrey had assumed was a cupboard. “We’re in close quarters here, but at least it’s warm, and we haven’t had an actual guest in ages.”

He returned his eyes to Tilrey, focused and canny again, as if he’d bounced back from his surprise. “So, you’re a shirker now. I can see that, after everything you went through. Can’t say I was never tempted myself. Who’s giving you orders? Is it that scrawny biologist, Brangán?”

The name was familiar—an older Dissident or Hargist of whom Ranek Egil had spoken with contempt. “No. I don’t take orders from any Upstart, Artur—not about this, anyway. Sometimes they even take orders from me.”

It felt like a dangerously boastful thing to say, but wasn’t it true? Tilrey had single-handedly persuaded Egil to let them leave the Southern Hearth. He was the one who kept Besha and their other allies in line, even if he had to mask himself in Gersha’s authority to do it.

When Artur just stared at him, he went on, pressing his advantage: “Who gives _you _orders now? You mentioned spending time in Cleveland. I know whose seat of power that is. And Malsha told me a little something about the ‘guests’ you host here. How you teach them to pass for Oslov.”

Artur glanced at the door to the other room as if he thought Gersha might appear. Nothing happened—the fire continued to crackle, the wind to howl. Turning back to Tilrey, he said in a voice just above a whisper, “Malsha _has _been indiscreet. If he told you about the Colonel’s business, he must want to start trouble.”

“Trouble for me? Or for you?”

“Both. But then, that’s his mission in life, isn’t it? To be an imp of the perverse. Not that it matters,” Artur said briskly. “I haven’t had a _guest_ in a few years, and I have no idea if I ever will again. Communications between here and Harbour are so poor that Colonel Thibault could have been assassinated for all I know. She’s not my master now, if she ever was.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Oh, I bet you are.” Artur’s face was closing up. “Tell me, when Malsha told you about my guests, did he know you were a shirker?”

“He was always good at figuring me out,” Tilrey admitted. “But when he told me you might have valuable intel for our movement, I didn’t take that on faith. I thought I’d wait and get the real story from you.”

“The real story, eh?” Artur looked downright confrontational now. “It’s been very pleasant to catch up, Rishka. But I wasn’t aware you were on an official mission. If you’ve come to pump me about my guests from Resurgence for your own Dissident reasons, I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

***

“When he was eight, I had his hearing checked because the teachers complained he didn’t listen,” Lisha said. “His hearing was fine, of course, and when I asked why he wasn’t answering his teachers, he told me, ‘If I really want to learn, I need to ignore the teacher so I can focus on my books’!”

Vera smiled, though it was a little forced. “Your son was bright.”

“Oh yes. He was shy, and he had trouble with hands-on proficiency tests in the classroom, but give him a book, and he’d learn everything in it. You have to learn from your child how _they _learn.”

They were having their second dinner in Lisha’s quarters while snow whirled outside. Vera had already heard all about Tilrey’s early outdoor adventures (he could sled before he could walk), his battles with strep and bronchitis, and his refusal to go to bed at a reasonable hour.

She told herself it was natural to enjoy these reminiscences, given how proud Lisha clearly was of her son. But at the same time she felt uncomfortable, like a spy gathering information that Tilrey might prefer to keep from her. He almost never talked about his past in Thurskein. And would Lisha be so chatty if she knew why Vera was actually here?

Well, she was going to know soon, because Vera was flying out tomorrow morning. By the end of this evening, she would find the courage to tell the truth.

While Lisha brewed the tea, Vera rehearsed what she would say, taking deep, even breaths. But when the Supervisor returned to the living room, all the fine words died in her throat. There was no way to _say _it without turning herself into a different person, and she didn’t yet know who that person was. A Laborer? An Upstart? A romantic heroine who transcended Levels? An idiot who was hopelessly infatuated with someone who didn’t love her?

Fearful that Lisha would read her feelings on her face, she said the first thing that entered her head: “I had an odd conversation today with your assistant—Mal.”

“Oh?”

“He thought I might have some ulterior motive for being here.”

Vera expected Lisha to say that Mal was incorrigible and would be reprimanded for his disrespect. But all the warm reassurance had left Lisha’s manner. She gazed at Vera, her eyes unsettlingly neutral. “Mal has a suspicious temperament. But sometimes his suspicions are apt.”

What was going on? Why on earth had she introduced the topic? Vera tried to make it into a joke. “Is it really so bizarre that I would come here to learn how you’ve increased your productivity without driving your workers into the ground?”

Lisha picked up a napkin and wiped condensation delicately from her upper lip. “Yes, actually,” she said. “Well, perhaps not ‘bizarre,’ but unusual. Generally, unless Government Sector thinks we’re harboring smugglers or Dissidents, it ignores us. A sharp dip in productivity might merit a visit, but an increase? Never.”

“Well, that’s . . . too bad.” Until today, Vera had seen Sector Six productivity as one more spreadsheet number. Now, whether she liked it or not, her head was crowded with images: the kids’ drawings in the breakroom; the two women who’d stopped to share a wink and a fist-bump before returning to their sewing machines; the old man who took pride in his own special fertilizer recipe. Numbers could never fully describe people.

Lisha kept studying her in that off-putting way. “I have to ask, Fir’n. Do you have some sort of theory you’re trying to prove using our sector? Or . . . were you sent here to study labor at all?”

“What are you—” Vera’s heart hammered, and her thoughts made as much sense as the maelstrom outside. “I _am _in the Bureau of Labor,” she managed.

“But your mother, I can’t help noticing, Fir’n, is the chair of the Int/Sec committee in the Council. Which makes me wonder if _they _were the ones who sent you here.”

Int/Sec send her here! Vera forced herself to unknot her fists, relieved and a little shocked at the same time. “My mother isn’t my boss, and I have nothing to do with intelligence!” She shuddered just thinking about that vast concrete complex in the Sector. “If an Int/Sec spy ever comes here, I’m sure they’d be less conspicuous and less, uh, prone to blunders than me. How do you even know that about my mother?”

But Lisha was no longer looking at Vera in that diamond-hard way. Her attention was on her rudimentary handheld, which had issued some sort of buzzing alert.

“Excuse me,” she said, darkening the screen. “What were we saying? Never mind—I’m afraid I have bad news. The storm isn’t moving on as fast as expected, so tomorrow’s flights have been canceled.”

The “bad” news made Vera go weak with relief. “Even the flights to the Southern Range?” she asked, doing her best to seem dismayed.

“I could try to find you a ground transport, but in high winds like these, they like to limit the traffic to essential shipments. I know you’d rather be with your family, but may I offer you my hospitality for one more night?”

“Of course! I’d be honored.” Lightheaded and suddenly eager to move, Vera sprang up and went to the window. Snow was blowing nearly horizontal under the floodlight, so thick she couldn’t see more than a meter. She had an impulse to dance and clap her hands, thankful for the storm, but refrained.

The wind dropped briefly, showing her tiny lights through the blizzard—far below her, blue and green and white and icy pink. “What _are _those? Is someone lost out there?”

Lisha came to stand beside her. “Oh, no. Those are for our snow-sculpture festival, to mark the turns of the maze.”

“But it’s not the solstice yet.”

“We’ve got no shortage of winter fests in ’Skein. People like things to look forward to during the dark months.” Lisha sounded deferent again, as if she’d never questioned Vera’s motives—as if Vera had imagined it. “This one’s a chance for snow carvers to show their skill. With any luck, the storm will quiet down tomorrow so they’ll have time to repair their work.”

Vera had made snowmen in the Southern Range as a child, but Redda was too cold for such outdoor amusements. “Could I go see?” she asked. “I mean, tomorrow, if it’s not too cold?”

It came out sounding all wrong—like a child asking for a favor. Maybe Lisha was taken off guard, too, because she patted Vera’s arm and said, “Of course. Why shouldn’t you see something new while you’re here?”

Why not indeed? And Vera went off to bed feeling wretched about her failure of nerve and guiltily elated that she had another day to figure this out.


	12. Snowbound

Gersha woke feeling immensely, deliciously warm. The air was thick with a strange yet comforting smell—burning, but not the acrid stink of an electric heater. Something woodsy, organic, and just a touch too musky. It reminded him of Harbour.

Weight pressed down on him, soft and even, as if a polar bear had settled on his chest. He sat up, shoving off what felt like a dozen layers of blankets and—were those _furs_? Outers killed wolves and bears for their pelts. And the room around him, crude stone insulated with masonry and moss, looked like an Outer dwelling.

But last night someone had been doctoring him with proper Oslov instruments. He remembered hot tea, a soothing female voice, then nothing.

All but his underclothes had been removed. He slid himself to the foot of the bed and found the heat source: an enormous iron stove. Sweat already beading on his cheeks, he called softly, “Tilrey?”

A heavy door opened to reveal the woman he remembered from last night. She wore a strange mishmash of garments: hand-knitted shawl and leg warmers, Oslov fleece jacket and pants, Oslov snow boots with added fur lining. All the Oslov-made goods must be contraband smuggled through here by the intrepid Sergeant Aurinthal.

“Pull those blankets back up,” she scolded Gersha in her Harbourer accent, letting her hand rest on his brow. “Your temperature feels good. If you’re strong enough, get up and put your outer layers back on. You had a lucky escape last night, my friend.”

Gersha’s first impulse was to resent being scolded. Then he recalled how quickly the white-out had surrounded them, and how Tilrey had hauled him to his feet and half carried him through the storm. “I know. Thanks to you and my friend—he’s okay, isn’t he?”

“Oh, he’s fine. Barely the worse for wear.”

She passed Gersha his fleeces and scarf, and he pulled them on. “You saved my life last night, but we weren’t properly introduced, er, _madam_.” He used the Harbourer word, savoring the language that reminded him how it felt to be where his surname was of no consequence. “My name is Gersha.”

Too late, he remembered the false persona he’d adopted at the base. But perhaps it didn’t matter here, in this land of outlaws.

“I’m Moneta. Most of us in Weigand prefer not to use our last names; you’ll fit right in.” She shot him a broad smile that showcased her freckles. “I imagine you’re wondering where your friend is. He’s outside with my husband and the girls, shoveling around the vents so we don’t suffocate. It’s still snowing, you see. Would you like breakfast?”

“I’d be very grateful, uh, Moneta.” What was a Harbourer doing here? Was she one of Colonel Thibault’s infiltrators? After she’d saved them, it seemed beyond rude to ask.

Gersha used the privy—which was half iced over and rather terrifying—and then joined Moneta in the warm kitchen. “So you and Artur are . . . married?” he asked as she spooned porridge from a cast-iron pot.

An Oslov couldn’t legally marry a non-citizen, but then, Artur wasn’t an Oslov anymore. How would that feel—to have your citizenship ripped from you? In those strange summer days when he thought he’d spend the rest of his life in the Southern Hearth, Gersha had managed not to think hard about that possibility.

“Yeah.” Moneta set a steaming teapot on the table. “Where did you two learn to speak English?”

“In school. And we spent some time in Harbour last summer on government business. Not just in Bettevy, but in Resurgence.” Gersha caught her gaze and held it. “I gather Artur was there, too. Is that where you’re from?”

Moneta returned his gaze with no apparent discomfort. “Another thing we usually don’t discuss in Weigand is our origins, Fir Upstart. Oh yes, Artur told me a bit about you.”

Gersha’s heart sped up. “He and I have barely been introduced.”

“Artur remembers faces. But yes—to answer your question, I was once a Resurgent. I learned to practice medicine in the rebuilt hospital complex of the capital; for a while, I was the personal physician to Colonel Thibault herself. So you can trust my doctoring.”

“I never doubted it,” Gersha assured her too quickly.

“No?” She arched an expressive brow. “Artur tells me you come from a proud line of Oslovs. Pride is something I understand—I was brought up at the Colonel’s court.”

She spoke the words the way Gersha might have said, “I am a Councillor of the Republic of Oslov,” as if all the pomp and grandeur of the Resurgent court were still spread out before her mind’s eye.

Gersha wondered if his own background even impressed her. It was hard to imagine anyone not being awed by the most advanced society in the world—in terms of technology, anyway—but the over-weening Colonel Thibault and her hangers-on clearly had their own notions of power and glory. And who was to say theirs were less legitimate than his own?

“If I may ask, how did you get here from Resurgence?” he asked. “Did you come to be with Artur?”

“Oh no.” Moneta’s throaty laughter was warm and haughty at once, reminding him of Davita Lindblom. “You’re asking if I came to this place for love? Dear me, I’m not sure any love is that powerful. I came to save my life.”

While Gersha drank tea and spooned the gluey porridge into his mouth, she explained: “For most of my life, I was a loyal follower of our Glorious Leader. Even when I thought she was a bit mad, I respected her. But my Hippocratic oath came first. When she ordered me to kill a patient—a rival of hers—and make the death look natural, I refused. Naturally, her Majesty found someone else to do it and framed me for the crime.”

Gersha shuddered. “This is something Colonel Thibault does? Assassinate her rivals?”

“Of course. Lady Curran was married to a man her Majesty fancied, and she wasn’t properly complimentary of her Majesty’s headdress at the Sunday salon, so the poor woman had to go.” Moneta sipped her own tea. “Your Councillors don’t kill each other?”

“No! Well, not yet. We . . . vote on things.” He cleared his throat, wishing Tilrey would appear. “So, did her Majesty exile you here?”

Moneta nodded. “My punishment was to help Artur set up house at the end of the world. I imagine her Majesty thought I wouldn’t last six months. I despised Artur at court, you see—I found him arrogant.” She smiled wistfully. “Which he was in those days. Such an Oslov! Our first week in this godforsaken place, we came close to killing each other. But then . . . something happened.”

For a moment she looked dreamy again. Then her eyes narrowed on him. “I hope you know, Fir Oslov, that if you threaten my family in any way, you won’t leave here alive. I have no intention of being dragged to Redda as a prisoner.”

Without thinking, Gersha had spooned up too much porridge; it stuck in his throat. Moneta’s cold gaze left no doubt that she meant what she said. When his coughing subsided, he said, “We’re not here to disturb your lives. I promise.”

“Good.”

Before he could make any further assurances, commotion erupted in the adjoining room. Two children burst into the kitchen—girls of six or seven, Gersha estimated, though they were so swaddled in parkas and furs that they could have been goblins from Feudal stories. They were arguing loudly about treats they wanted for lunch, using a fluent mix of Oslov and Harbourer that made his head spin.

“Avalyn! Cintra!” Moneta silenced them with a ferocious look. “Where’s your father? He’s been out there too long.”

“He’s in the shed oiling the backup generator,” said the apparent elder of the sisters.

“And arguing with the other guest,” the younger one added. “Is the other guest a giant, Ma? He looks like a giant.”

“No, many Oslovs are tall, and don’t be rude. A guest is a guest. Off to your room and out of your outdoor things.” Moneta rose and opened a cabinet. “Or _nobody_ will have pickled caribou liver for lunch.”

With some grousing and curious glances at Gersha, the sisters retreated through a door that didn’t appear tall enough to accommodate an adult. “I apologize,” Moneta said, slicing into a loaf of something gray-pink and grainy. “If we were at court, I would have taught them better manners. Out here, it’s more important that they know how to knife a marauding wolf in the heart.”

Gersha winced. “Do you ever think of leaving?”

“Oh, often. Believe me.” She picked up a wooden mallet and began tenderizing the unappetizing slices. “You see, though, when I came here, the village had no doctor. People made do with the Oslov medications they could smuggle or steal, and they didn’t use them right. Life expectancy was low; many children never made it beyond five. If I leave, it goes back to that.”

Now Gersha understood her straight posture and the sparks in her eyes—she had a purpose. He remembered how it felt to polish a speech for the Council. “You’re doing good work, then.”

“Oh? The almighty Oslov government approves of me?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly—”

“No, you weren’t speaking for your government, Fir. Your government doesn’t care about these people—these ‘Outers,’ as you call them. Sometimes it even sends soldiers to kill them like rats.”

“But they trespass on our land and steal and scavenge our goods like—like vermin.” Gersha stopped, realizing what he was saying. “You’re right. I haven’t thought much about it, but we do, uh, treat our non-citizens in a questionable manner.”

“Do you think so?” Moneta’s sarcasm was impeccable. She poured water from the kettle into a gigantic thermos, steam reddening her face. “The Colonel’s no different, though. She used to send gangs to kill the Michiganders because they allied themselves with the Empire of the Plains. She’s a tyrant, but at least she doesn’t pretend to do it all in the name of logic and reason, the way your people do.”

“You have a point. We don’t always respect our own principles.” It hurt to admit this in a way Gersha had thought he was past. “But have _you_ always thought the Colonel was a tyrant? Didn’t you grow up believing in her?”

“Oh yes.” She gave him a dark look. “When I was young and naïve, I actually thought she was a glorious leader. At your age, I would hope to be wiser. Much wiser.”

What did you say to that? Feeling chastened, Gersha watched her bustle through her lunch preparations. “Can I help with anything?” he asked at last, half expecting the offer to be rebuffed.

Moneta handed him the thermos. “Put on your outdoor things and find my husband and your friend. Give them this, and make them stop fighting and come in for lunch.”

“I’m _sure_ they’re not fighting.” Gersha looked around for his parka, remembering Moneta’s daughter’s words with misgiving. “Tilrey is a negotiator. He doesn’t fight. And they’re friends, aren’t they? Or were.”

Moneta snorted. “Sometimes friends fight the most.”

Dressing for the outdoors took Gersha ten minutes, and making his way across the yard to the shed took five more. The snow was up to his thighs and still falling. All he could see of the village was a succession of white humps sheltered against the towering Ceiralt Wall, whose top was lost in the thickening dusk.

The shed was a dank pre-fab structure that smelled of space heaters. From the entryway, he heard raised voices.

“I don’t know how you could think that of me, Artur.”

“I don’t know how to think anything of you, Rishka,” Artur’s voice was raspy with irritation. “I don’t know you anymore. You’re a shirker, you’re shacked up with a high Upstart, and whenever you play innocent, like just now, you sound like _him_.”

“Like who?”

Tilrey _was_ “playing innocent”; Gersha knew the tone. And why had he told Artur they were shirkers?

“Who do you think?” Artur snapped back. “I hear what you’re saying. But I won’t risk innocent lives. These kids you call ‘infiltrators’ had no idea what they were getting into when the Colonel recruited them.”

“I don’t want to hurt them, Turshka! I just want to—”

“Locate them—I know. And I believe you. _You _wouldn’t hurt them. I’m just not convinced you wouldn’t hand them over to someone who would.”

Now Tilrey sounded like he was having trouble not yelling. “If these ‘kids’ made it to Redda, they may already be in grave danger. We could help them.”

“In exchange for their loyalty to your rebellion?”

“Maybe it would be in their _interests _to—”

Gersha took a step, and Artur whipped around. “Who’s there? Moneta?”

The game was up, so Gersha continued into the room. To his surprise, Artur’s posture and demeanor changed with whiplash speed, softening from fierce opposition into deference. “Ah, Fir Gádden. Did you sleep well? I hope my wife hasn’t been tormenting you with poultices or cod livers.”

“Your wife has been lovely.” Gersha offered the thermos. There was a time when Artur’s respectful manner would have put him at ease, but that time was over. “She’d like you to come to lunch.”

Tilrey took the thermos, stroking Gersha’s shoulder as he did so—a discreet caress that felt like a calculated attempt to soothe him. Gersha flinched. Couldn’t either of them be genuine around him?

“You don’t have to stop arguing on my account,” he said stiffly. “I know perfectly well why we’re here.” And then, to Artur, “I don’t know what you remember about me from your time working in the Sector, but there’s no need to coddle me with your fancy manners. I am not that person anymore.”

Artur met his gaze evenly. “No? I do wonder what your uncle would think if he knew you were consorting with Dissidents, Fir.”

Tilrey shot a warning, apologetic look at Gersha. Gersha ignored him and went on addressing Artur: “That’s technically Fir _Councillor_, but you can stop with all the ‘Fir this’ and ‘Fir that.’ Please don’t patronize me. I’m not ‘consorting with Dissidents.’ I _am_ one.”

Artur stared at him, mouth open. “You’re a Councillor now? Which party?”

“Island,” Gersha managed. He couldn’t look at Tilrey, already regretting his outburst. He’d lost his temper and said too much, just as he’d been warned not to do.

After a moment, Artur laughed aloud, sounding a little stunned. To Tilrey, he said, “How did you _do _that? I mean, I know you’re good, but—witchcraft?”

Gersha felt his face blaze. “I’m standing right here. Everything I’ve done for him or with him, I’ve done of my free will.”

“Oh? Or was _he_ the one who got you into this mess?” Artur asked, his eyes darting to Tilrey. “I can’t figure you two out.”

“Not him,” Tilrey said at the same time that Gersha said, “It’s not a mess!”

A smile was creeping across Artur’s face. “It may or may not be a mess, but someone needs to explain to me how a high-named Upstart from one of the most conservative families—a Councillor, no less—turns into a shirker. No, not now,” he added, silencing them with a gesture. “Monnie expects us for lunch. But afterward” —he turned to Gersha— “if you’re such an egalitarian, maybe you can help me with my afternoon chores and give me a primer on how the hell this happened.”

***

Vera ate breakfast in front of the windows in her suite, watching snow flurry madly in the darkness that preceded a winter dawn. Storms had always made her feel cozy. In the Southern Range during family holidays, bad weather had meant a welcome delay of the return to Redda. This storm was giving her a reprieve, too—from making choices that remained impossible.

She hadn’t been lying when she told Tilrey she was expected to present Tollsha with their child’s genetic profile in the presence of all four of their parents. Twice her mother had reminded her she needed to set a date for the Ceremony of Recognition, and twice she’d failed to do so. Tollsha himself hadn’t mentioned it; maybe he was embarrassed by the whole thing. But sooner or later, the issue would come to a head.

She rose and gazed at her reflection in the dark glass—her belly larger than ever, her face wan and haggard. Her due date was scarcely more than a ten-day away. She couldn’t just let things take their course. She’d told Tilrey she wouldn’t be faithless to her husband, wouldn’t pass another man’s child off as his own, and she meant it.

Would Tollsha rage at her, full of injured pride? Or would he feel grief? Disappointment? Whatever her feelings about him, he didn’t deserve this. In his awkward, utterly miscalculated way, he’d tried to make himself agreeable to her.

A knock on the door made her jump—she was way too tense these days. She pulled her robe tight around her and opened up to find Mal. “Did you come for the breakfast tray?”

The young man shook his head. “I’ll take it if you like, Fir’n, but I’ve brought you a visitor. She wants to see you right away.”

“A visitor? Lisha?” Vera dodged around him and stepped into the hall.

But the tall woman who stood waiting, arms crossed on her chest, was not Tilrey’s mother but her own.

Vera stepped backward, her heart jolting against her ribcage. She had a childish impulse to slam the door in her mother’s face as if that would banish her for good. “What are you—how did you _get _here? The storm . . .”

“I was already halfway here when the storm hit,” Albertine Linnett said, seemingly unbothered by this reception. “I hitched a ride on a supply transport for discretion’s sake, which turned out to be an excellent choice because weather doesn’t stop them.”

She stepped past Vera into the suite, cocking her head at Mal. “Thank you. I don’t think we’ll need anything for a while.” And then, to her daughter, “We have to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hour of decision/reckoning approaches for Vera, and Gersha may get a bit of schooling, too. Thank you everyone for reading, and for your wonderful comments!


	13. The Frozen Princess

_Twelve years ago_

“I’ll be in here only a second,” Vera promised the stranger. “I just need one thing.”

The boy hadn’t moved from the windowseat since Vera barged her way into the spare bedroom. He sat there wrapped in a blanket, hunched with his chin on his knees. Whenever she glanced directly at him, he looked away. But she could feel his blue eyes on her as she found the text she wanted (_1,000 Harbourer Verbs, Conjugated_) and flipped to the index.

“Your father has a guest in the spare room,” her mother had told her yesterday when they arrived at the vacation house, not meeting her eyes. “It’s a political thing. He won’t bother you, but it’s best to steer clear of there.”

Vera was old enough to have an inkling of what “a guest” might mean. Her grandfather often had a “guest” or a “friend” at his home; her father had a female “friend” who’d been a part-time resident of his apartment for the past decade. Most of these people were Laborers; none of them would ever be part of the family. If you encountered them, you were polite, but you kept the interaction brief.

So it couldn’t kill Vera or the “guest” to come face to face, whatever her mother thought. More importantly, she’d looked everywhere else for the book before coming in here. If she didn’t find every flaw in last eighth-day’s dictation exercise, Fir’n Chanaw would fail her, and her mark for the quarter would be shot.

She just hadn’t expected the “guest” to be her age, or so quiet and sad-looking. Or so . . . well, yes, okay. Her furtive glances suggested he was gorgeous.

Her intense skimming of the book was leaving her more clueless than she’d been before. She dashed it to the floor. “This language is so _stupid_! Why is ‘born out’ wrong? None of the dictionaries will tell me!”

“You need an E on the end,” the boy said.

Vera hadn’t been talking to him, and an actual answer was so unexpected that she wheeled to face him, cheeks heating. “That doesn’t make sense. ‘Born’ is the past participle of ‘to bear.’”

The boy flushed, too, and dropped his eyes. “It’s just that way,” he said with a Skeinsha accent that made her think of a soft brush caressing the words. “‘The baby was born.’ ‘The theory was borne out.’ The second one has an E.”

Vera paged furiously through the book. He was correct. “How did you know that?” she asked almost accusingly.

The boy tugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders. His eyes were shadowed, his face blotchy like he had a cold, but he was still better looking than any boy in her class. “I taught myself to read Harbourer,” he said almost apologetically. “Sort of. There was this book in the library called _The Frozen Princess and Other Tales_, and I wanted to see if their story of the Frozen Princess was the same as ours.”

“It can’t be.” Vera did her best to sound authoritative. “The Frozen Princess is a Feudal story.”

“I know, Fir’n. But some of the Feudal stories have their roots in older Harbourer stories, and that’s one of them. I guess.”

“Was it the same?” Vera asked, curious despite herself.

“Some of it. But the Frozen Princess reunites with her sister in the Harbourer version, and there’s a talking snowman, and—” He broke off, turning to the window as if anticipating her disapproval. “Just silly little differences. Dal thinks I’m obsessed with her—uh, the princess in the legend, I mean.”

Vera had never imagined that a boy, let alone a Drudge, could share her fascination with Feudal tales. She’d never had a friend from a Laborer family. At school, they kept to themselves, except for a few who’d attained a sort of dissolute popularity by procuring sap for their friends and scoring goals in the gym. This boy didn’t seem like the sports-and-partying type.

“Who’s Dal?” she asked, not knowing what else to say.

“My friend.” His lashes cast delicate shadows on his cheek. “In Thurskein.” The last word was nearly whispered.

Vera sat down on the neatly made bed. The dictation had faded into insignificance. “Your girlfriend?” she asked in a gentler voice.

He didn’t answer, only hunched his shoulders, hugging himself through the blanket.

Vera never knew what to say to boys, particularly nice-looking ones. The time Anton Karishkov had asked her a question about a differentiation, she’d shaken and stammered until he gave up and asked her friend Veltra instead. But this boy was different—safer somehow. Here alone in a house full of Upstarts, he wouldn’t turn stinging scorn on her or tell all his friends she was “uptight.” To him she might even dare to speak as she would to her brother.

As for why he was here—well, he’d shown no inclination to mention it, so why should she?

“You must have a girlfriend,” she said. “Everybody at your school’s probably madly in love with you.”

For the first time, he met her eyes. Made a sound that was almost a laugh. “I’m boring, actually.”

“You don’t seem boring. You seem smart. You may have just saved me from a failing mark.”

He colored again. “That’s just Harbourer. I study too much. That’s what Dal says.”

Vera rose from the bed and approached the windowseat. She didn’t dare sit beside him, so she leaned awkwardly against the wall. “This Dal has a lot of opinions.”

He smiled—a tentative smile that reached inside her ribcage and twisted something there. “She does, Fir’n. She’s very opinionated.” After a pause, he added, “You seem opinionated, too.”

Why would he say that? What had she done? Then Vera saw his expression, and she released her breath in a laugh that was stunned and pleased at once. He was still smiling. He was _teasing_ her.

She was too dull to tease, she’d been told once, too slow on the uptake. But she’d watched her friends banter back and forth with boys, and it looked like fun. Maybe she could practice with him.

“I’m horribly opinionated,” she said. “And I study too much, too. My friend Veltra says I’m out of touch with reality because I’m waiting for a saga hero to come along and sweep me away.”

“A saga hero?” He raised a brow. “You’ve got high standards.”

“I guess I do. Is that bad?” Was he being serious now?

“No.” His eyes were still open to hers, blue with a strange softness in their depths. She could already tell he didn’t trust everyone with that gaze. It was an honor, a gift, and for whatever reason, he was giving it to her. Had Válya in the saga felt this way when she found Vodion chained up in her father’s root cellar?

_Her father. _Her mind worked frantically. Dad never had boyfriends, only girlfriends. Maybe this boy was his current girlfriend’s nephew or cousin from Thurskein or . . . something. There had to be an innocent reason he was here, but discussing it might make her new friend unhappy. _No ranks_, Válya had said to Vodion. _No names. We don’t need them._

“The Frozen Princess had high standards, too,” the boy said. “Especially in the Harbourer version.”

The legends were a safe, familiar subject. “I like how she builds herself an ice castle,” Vera said. “I dream of that sometimes—a place that’s all mine.” _This room can be our castle, safe and sound. You and me._

“I’d like an ice fortress, too.” He looked wistful. “I mean, first I’d have to be magic with ice running through my veins, like the princess was, so I wouldn’t freeze or anything. But it would be nice. You can sit down, you know. Fir’n.”

“Please don’t call me that. I’m not Notified yet.” Shaky from this brief acknowledgement of their difference, but also a little bolder, Vera sat down at the far end of the windowseat. Not close enough to touch him, huddled as he was, but almost. “I’m Vera. What’s your name?”

“Tilrey.”

No last names. Better that way. “I’m glad you don’t have ice running through your veins, Tilrey.”

“I don’t know,” he said in that shyly teasing way again. “It might be convenient. I would feel things less, maybe.”

“I’m still glad.” Vera glanced out at the snowy firs and pearly gray sky, calculating that they had at least two hours before her parents returned from their political soirée. Valgund was outside collecting bark or something; he wouldn’t bother them. “Could you tell me more about the Frozen Princess, Tilrey?”

_Now_

When Vera and her mother were alone together, Albertine Linnett settled herself on the couch her daughter had abandoned. Her eyes were shadowed with fatigue, but she held her chin as high as ever. “I’ve come a long way,” she said, “and we may not have much time to talk before I have to pay my respects to the Supervisor. So I’m going to ask you to answer my questions without getting emotional.”

Vera was already “emotional,” her throat tightening and her cheeks burning. “I am a human being,” she said, feeling like a whiny little girl with grimy hands. “We feel things.”

She broke off as she registered her mother’s new expression—not unflappably superior anymore. There was a wobble to the lips, a softness to the eyes. Something had changed. And in a rush, Vera knew what.

She sank onto the couch, distantly aware of tremors shaking her from head to toe. “But I guess you know that,” she murmured, “no matter how many times you told me otherwise. Go on. Ask.”

And then she turned away, so she wouldn’t have to see her mother’s face as Albertine asked, just as softly as Vera had spoken, “Who is your child’s father?”

The world thickened and blurred before Vera’s eyes. All of this was fated, inevitable, like the events of a saga. She’d dodged the moment of truth with Lisha, and it had come to her.

“Why would you ask that?” she whispered, less evading than buying time as the tears overflowed.

No answer came. Instead, the couch shifted beside her, and then warm arms encircled her back. Her mother’s body, usually so straight and hard, softened to draw her in.

The touch woke memories from long ago, when her mother was a welcoming lap and a melodious voice reassuring her no ice ghouls lived in the dark closet. A time before school and tests, before pride and standards and constant embarrassment, before _Being a Linnett is a privilege, not a birthright. You can’t expect to coast through life_. Back when she thought it was enough just to be, her mother had held her this way. She pressed her face to her mother’s chest and let the tears flow, heaving with sobs.

Time seemed to stop, suspended along with everything else. When Vera became aware of things again, her mother was wiping tears and snot from her face with a tissue.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” Albertine said in a slightly quivering voice. “I’m not here to scold you. We’re past the point where that would be of use. Is it Tilrey Bronn?”

Vera jerked backward, away from her. Her temples were throbbing again, but there was no point in being outraged at her mother’s prying and spying. Too late for that. “How do you know?” she asked out of sheer curiosity. “Did you hack into the genetic records?”

“No! Even I have some standards. But something happened to cross my desk at Int/Sec, several months ago—an analyst’s report mentioning regular ‘meetings’ between you and the young man around the appropriate date.”

A little moan rose in Vera’s throat, but she forced it back down. It didn’t matter who would want to spy on her or why. Not anymore. “And then you talked to Tollsha?”

Albertine shook her head, her hands tensely clasped. “Of course not. I wouldn’t go to him first. Are you saying Tollsha knows about this?”

Vera couldn’t meet her mother’s eyes. “Not this. Only the . . . meetings.”

“So, when I read the report, I remembered your . . . history with Tilrey. But I didn’t think anything of it until you postponed the Ceremony of Recognition again and ran off here. Then, I suppose, I drew my conclusions. ”

Blood rushed to Vera’s cheeks, and tears swelled in her already sore eyes. “I was reckless,” she said in a rush. “Stupid. I knew there was a ten percent chance of conception on day three after discontinuing, and a twenty percent chance on day seven, and I thought I could risk it. It seemed like too much trouble to start the pills and stop them again. I thought I’d be safe through a ten-day. Or maybe I didn’t think anything, because . . . well, because.”

How could she explain wanting to lead two lives on parallel tracks that would never collide? _No ranks. No names. _Part of her just wanted to spend her whole life in that room with Tilrey. “I wanted to do the right thing and give you a grandchild with the right father, and I wanted . . .”

The lump in her throat choked off the rest. Her mother’s hand rested on her arm, stroking in tiny circles. “You wanted him,” Albertine said, her voice strangely free of judgment.

Vera squeezed her eyes shut. “But he doesn’t want me. Not that way. Not even—not even after I offered to Lower myself and marry him and make our child legitimate. He hates me.” She drew a deep breath. “And he should. I deceived him, with or without conscious intention. So please don’t blame him. I know what you’re thinking, but this was all me.”

Her mother’s hand went still. “Your negligence . . . well, I can see you already reproach yourself for that. Good. But I’m not here to scold you for loving across rank lines.”

Vera wiped the fresh tears away, an ugly laugh rising in her throat. “Really? Because the first time we two were together, back when I was in school, you practically killed me.”

“That was different.” Albertine’s voice had sharpened. “I didn’t handle things well; it’s been nagging at me for years. I was angry at you for taking advantage of the situation when I should have been angry at your father for creating it in the first place. I admit that when I began suspecting your child was Tilrey’s, my first thought was, well, revenge.”

“Revenge?” The word sounded foreign and spiky in Vera’s mouth. “You thought Tilrey would want to take revenge on—on me?”

“On us.”

A dark, familiar discomfort stirred in Vera’s breast. _No ranks. No names. Not important. Here we’re equal. _“Because of my grandfather.”

Albertine Linnett averted her gaze; the shame on her face was unmistakable. “Not just him. Vera, this family has a debt of honor to pay to Tilrey. And I don’t think we can pay it the way you imagine.”

“What do you mean?” A “debt of honor” sounded archaic, almost Feudal. “Grandpa was exiled. And Tilrey and I—we’ve talked about all this.” _More than I wanted to._

“Have you?” Tears shone in her mother’s eyes. “All of it?”

“Of course. And it was hard, but he’s not vengeful.” With a squirming embarrassment, Vera remembered how upset she’d been after Tollsha revealed he’d been with Tilrey, and Tilrey confirmed it. “Tilrey’s always been honest with me. He taught me a lot about how, uh, naïve I was. Am.”

“Did he tell you about your father?”

Vera was abruptly so hot that the world swelled and pulsed through a red veil. She had to stop her mother from saying whatever she was going to say next. “I know what happened back then. I know it was bad. I don’t need—”

“No, I think maybe you do.”

The beads of sweat on Vera’s scalp went cold, but she lacked a voice to object. All she could do was listen as her mother continued:

“Twelve years ago, your father came home stinking drunk. He’d been at the Lounge, he told me, and he’d seen your grandfather showing off Tilrey as his kettle boy. ‘That wasn’t supposed to happen,’ he kept ranting. ‘We got rid of him. I never wanted to see his face again.’”

Vera swallowed. “Because of . . . me?”

Her mother nodded. “I told your father he was overreacting to your little indiscretion with Tilrey at the vacation house, which he’d already blown his top about. ‘_You _were the one who brought the boy into your home,’ I told him. ‘They’re both teenagers. It happens.’ He said, ‘No. There’s nothing normal or innocent about this. The little shit did it for revenge.’ And then he . . . well, your father wept, Vera. He stopped raging and collapsed on my couch and actually wept. And he said . . .”

Albertine cleared her throat, averting her eyes from her daughter’s. “I never wanted to tell you this, but here we are. Your father said, ‘It wasn’t my fault I had to force him. He wasn’t behaving sensibly.’ He said his friend Admin Makari told him he had to ‘break the boy in’ before offering him to your grandfather, and there was resistance, and so . . .” She blinked rapidly. “He drugged Tilrey. He raped him. Those aren’t the words he used, but I understood well enough. It happened three times, I believe. Your dad kept crying and saying, ‘I didn’t even _want _him; I was just doing what everyone does. I tried to be kind. I couldn’t make him understand.’”

A sob rose and died in Vera’s throat. She could no longer look at her mother, only stare down at the folds of the robe over her swollen belly. “I knew.”

“Did you? Do you?”

“Yes. No.” She was back in the spare room, face to face with Tilrey for the first time. _I’ll be in here only a second. _Her eyes taking him in at a glance: his beauty and his huddled posture. The blanket he clung to. The blotchy signs of recent weeping that she told herself were something else. “We never talked about why he was there. But I could tell something was wrong. It was obvious. I just didn’t . . .”

She’d willfully overlooked all the signs and instead believed in the person she wanted Tilrey to be, the person _he _seemed to want her to see. She’d let him fool her with his teasing ebullience because she liked it and because she needed to believe in her patient, loving father, who told her Feudal tales and comforted her when she made poor quarterly marks and took her side against her mother. Who didn’t chide her for being “emotional.” Who would never believe anything bad of her.

So she’d told herself little stories. About Vodion and Válya. About a nephew from Thurskein. Whatever worked to blot out the evidence that was right in front of her.

“You were a kid, too.” Albertine’s voice, normally so low and even, quavered for an instant. “I _did _know. I saw it in the boy’s face when your father brought him into the house. And I did nothing because, well, this is how the world works. How politics work. Some boys serve this function. Most of them don’t seem to mind. Your father’s always desired women, and I don’t think of him as violent, so I didn’t really think . . . well, that anyone would be hurt. I didn’t allow myself to think much at all.”

Something was swelling in Vera’s chest, squeezing her lungs, choking her. “If Dad could do that, he’s barely human.”

“Or too human. Your father was crying all through his confession—out of remorse, for what it’s worth. He blamed the system, the traditions, the expectations, my father. Anybody but himself.”

Vera’s hands curled into fists. “That’s not real remorse.”

“Maybe not,” Albertine said in the distant way she generally used to discuss her husband with Vera.

_Because she assumes I’ll defend him_, Vera realized with a fresh flush of heat to her face. “He felt guilty for the wrong reasons. Because things went too far.”

Her mother nodded. “The second part of his confession . . . well, he said when he found out about you and Tilrey, he’d flown into a rage and beaten the boy. ‘And then,’ he said, ‘I asked Malsha to throw the wretched creature away in a brothel so we could be done. But that’s not what happened. Now I’ll have to look at him every time I go to the Lounge and remember what I did to him and the nasty little vengeance he took on my family.’”

Vera smoothed the cloth over her belly, feeling strangely calm. “There was no vengeance. There still isn’t.” _Just me, throwing myself at Tilrey like an idiot. _“You have to make Dad see that.” _Because I don’t know if I can ever speak to him again._

Was she in any position to judge her father, though? He’d treated Tilrey like a recalcitrant tool that had to be forced to serve its purpose. She hadn’t forced him that way, but she’d used him just as selfishly, telling herself he was choosing her of his own free will when he was in no good position to refuse.

_He did like me, _a rebellious voice inside her insisted. _He teased me. We flirted. When I finally kissed him, he kissed me back. _All true, but how miserable must he have felt that day, locked up in that room? How desperate for some sort of friend?

A cool, skinny hand took hers, pressing tightly until her fist opened. “Your father isn’t going to know about this. It’s not his business. Vera, the priority right now is your child.”

Tilrey had said something like this, hadn’t he? In his own more roundabout way, he’d tried to remind her of the true nature of their relationship, and now she had no choice but to hear it.

“Are you saying I should be faithless to Tollsha?” she asked without anger, clasping her mother’s hand back. “Lie to him and fake the profile?”

“What do you think you should do?”

Vera closed her eyes, but she couldn’t hide from the answer. “Tell him the truth. And a—ask him to go along with it.” _Beg him if I have to. _“For my son’s sake.”

She half expected her mother to balk at this plan, but Albertine’s hand didn’t flinch in hers. “Whatever you think best.”

Just like that, the unthinkable was thinkable, which didn’t mean it was doable. “But what if Tollsha won’t go along with it? I mean, why would he?”

Albertine’s grip relaxed. “I don’t think Tollsha is as inflexible as you believe. His own parents had a mismatched marriage, and he has a career in the Council to keep alive. We will _all _survive this,” she added, her voice turning to steel, “your child first and foremost. But first you need to accept something, Vera. If he’s already said no once, Tilrey will never marry you. He may not even want to see the child. Not because he hates you, but . . .”

Vera nodded, eager to end the flow of words. Mortification glued her limbs, made her eyelids sore and heavy. That rebellious part of her was still furious at Tilrey for not _saying _something, or not saying enough. But he was nothing if not polite and deferent to Upstarts, too polite to be blunt about all the ways they’d hurt him. Just once he’d lashed out at her, after Tollsha interrupted them. Maybe he’d hoped that would be enough to open her eyes.

She couldn’t change any of that. The least she could do was make sure his son never experienced the slightest fraction of what he had.

“I know what I have to do,” she said, tugging her hand free of her mother’s. “But there’s something you won’t like.”

“What?”

There was a good chance Tilrey wouldn’t like this part, either, but Vera was sure. “Lisha—his mother. She wants a grandchild. She deserves to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was struggling with this chapter, and then I realized that we really need to see Vera and Tilrey's first meeting for a better understanding of how she sees him. Hence the flashback here. The prequel story starts with the aftermath of their hooking up (which happened the second time she visited him), so this part was left out. Writing it clarified some things for me, and I hope it works for other readers!
> 
> The Vodion/Válya saga that Vera references was summarized by Gersha in Chapter 10. While he focuses on the origin-of-sap part of the legend and the nightmarish Owl King, for her it's all about the romance. :)
> 
> Yep, just saw _Frozen II_. ;) I like the idea that Disney movies will be fodder for the "legends" of the future. But also, to get nerdy about it, _Frozen_ was inspired by Hans Christian Andersen's "The Snow Queen," which also inspired Joan D. Vinge's _The Snow Queen_, which was a big inspiration for Oslov. So, full circle. :)


	14. In a Maze

“And then, well, the two of us were married,” Gersha said. “Not in the eyes of the law, of course, but in our own.”

Artur stopped dead, his shovel in midair. They were in the shed, out of Tilrey’s earshot, preparing a load of fuel for the stoves indoors. “You had a ceremony?”

“Yes. Privately,” Gersha added, being deliberately vague about where the ceremony had taken place.

In telling Artur the history of his relationship with Tilrey, he’d been as thorough as he dared—even including parts that still made him cringe, such as the time he’d sent Tilrey to Ranek Egil for interrogation. But he’d been careful to omit any mention of the Southern Hearth. Artur might still have ties to Colonel Thibault, who could pose almost as much of a threat to the Dissident outpost as Oslov could.

Artur thrust his shovel back into the bin of dried caribou dung, looking a little stunned by everything he’d heard. After a moment, though, his expression turned thoughtful. “That must have been fun—play-acting at marriage.”

Gersha pulled a damp wood chip out of his own bin and tossed it in the discards pile. “It wasn’t play-acting any more than your marriage is. He’s my husband. I’m with him for life.”

“Are you, Fir?”

The more Gersha saw of Artur and Moneta’s daily routine, the more impressed he was with their survival out here. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter what this exile thought of him or Tilrey or their relationship. But from the moment last night when he heard Artur call Tilrey “Rishka” in that familiar, almost elder-brotherly way, it _had_ mattered. Artur had tried to protect Tilrey back when he needed it most. He deserved to know that Tilrey was happy now, not being hurt or used again; Gersha needed him to believe it.

But Artur showed no signs of believing it. Half the time he treated Gersha with icy deference, and the other half he bordered on nasty. “You seem to think you know us better than we know ourselves,” Gersha said now, sadly.

Artur emptied a stinky shovelful of dung into the crate they were filling. “You’re an unusual case. But I’ve known other Upstarts who claimed to be attached for life to their Drudge lovers, and it never ended well—for the Drudge, anyway.”

_He’ll see what I was_, Tilrey had said about Artur back at the base. More and more, Gersha understood what he’d meant. “You’re protective of Tilrey. So am I.”

“So you keep telling me, Fir.”

_Don’t get angry. Stay reasonable. _“But I’m not what you think. I’m not using him. I won’t snap out of it and . . . turn against him. I’m in way too deep.”

Artur snorted, bending to fill the shovel again. “Exactly how are you in too deep? Forgive my skepticism, but how have you compromised yourself, Fir? Is there physical evidence against you? Have you met with Dissident leaders? Could anyone testify against you _besides_ Tilrey?”

“Yes!” Gersha thought of the Duke, of Besha, of Sergeant Aurinthal. They all had reasons to keep quiet, but with the right incentives, they knew enough to ruin him.

A wood chip slipped from his trembling fingers to the floor. As he bent to pick it up, his mind filled with pictures of the possibilities he’d been studiously repressing: being arrested, shackled, locked up between white walls or in the dark. Shamed. Tortured into giving evidence against his husband. Exiled.

He held tight to the bin with both hands, finding his gravity again. “Yes, I’m compromised. Forgive me if I don’t want to give you any specifics, and if I—I—well, I’m new to this. Leading this double life. It’s not always easy.”

He raised his eyes to find Artur looking straight at him. The bearded man hid his feelings well, but his eyes were doubtful.

Gersha returned the gaze. “And sometimes I’m scared,” he finished.

A subtle something relaxed in Artur’s face as he bent to his task again. “Good. You should be.”

Gersha swallowed what he wanted to say (_Who are you to tell me what to do?_). He plunged his hand into the bin, looking for the wet chips.

Artur kept talking: “You’re not the first Strutter I’ve seen turn against the power structure that put you where you are. Every year young high-named Upstarts leave University vowing to root out corruption in the system. But almost none of them stay the course, because they’re more comfortable with ideals than realities. The ones who actually Dissent, let alone rebel, tend to be fools who get caught. Are you a fool, Gersha?”

“No.” Gersha remembered poor young Fredrich Akeina, who’d been exiled after Celinda recruited him to the True Hearth and then turned on him. “But you’re right about me, or at least about who I used to be. I wasn’t comfortable with certain realities, either. I was so disgusted by the dirty work of politics that I could barely fulfill the duties of my office. But Tilrey changed that.”

“Did he?”

_Make your case. No anger. _“He showed me my ideals were meaningless within a corrupt system. He taught me to use the dirty work of politics to reform that system. And then I stepped across the threshold and realized these patchy little reforms aren’t enough. We need a radical overhaul—yes, a revolution.” His heart thudded against his ribcage as he spoke the word, one he didn’t think he’d ever used with Tilrey.

Artur stuck the shovel in the ground and rested his elbows on the handle. “That’s a nice speech. And I’m sure Rishka taught you well. He’s certainly learned a lot about politics since I knew him.”

“That’s an understatement.” Examples of Tilrey’s political acumen crowded into Gersha’s brain. He was opening his mouth to list them when Artur continued as if he hadn’t spoken:

“But personally, I care about people, not politics.” A gesture back toward the house. “My wife, my kids, the young people who come to me for training. They’re my compass points. What about you?”

“What do you mean?” Gersha picked up a wood chip and stared at it, trying to remember what he was supposed to be examining it for.

“Let’s get real, Fir. This man you call your husband, your teacher—you kept him as your kettle boy for two years.” Artur’s hands were in his pockets now, his eyes narrowed on Gersha. “And I happen to know that Tilrey wasn’t a normal kettle boy. He didn’t choose the life; he was forced into it. So: You sent him off to get fucked by other men. You let your peers use and degrade him and pretended you didn’t care. You even sent him to Int/Sec to be tortured and grilled about his loyalties—yes, I listened carefully to your story, Fir Councillor.”

Gersha realized his lip was caught between his teeth. When he released it, he tasted blood. “I did do those things. I regret them, more than I can say. But—”

“You were a different person then. Right. But why did it take you seven years to become whoever you are now, Fir? You saw Tilrey being hurt, over and over. That didn’t bother you? You had to wait till a revolution made _ideological _sense to you?”

A few moments ago, the drafty shed had felt chilly to Gersha. Now tears made hot tracks down his cheeks, and his skin was warm and tight with shame. “You went along with it, too,” he said, turning the accusation back on Artur even as he knew he was just making himself look worse. “He said you ‘trained’ him. What does that mean? Nothing good, I’m guessing.”

“You’re right.” Artur sank into a sitting position, sprawled against the bin of dung. “I know how Redda works,” he said quietly, as if the fight had left him. “You’re scared to rock the boat, so you go along with things. Even when they make you queasy. You tell yourself it’s all for the best. ‘He’ll be better off in the Magistrate’s bed. Serving Councillors is an honor. He’ll have a better future this way.’ I used those reasons on myself, even, back when Malsha twisted my arm to make me into his kettle boy.”

“You were his kettle boy?” Gersha didn’t recall Tilrey mentioning that.

“Yeah. Only for a year before he made me his secretary, and I made damn sure the old bastard paid me with more than vague promises. Malsha got my sister Raised.”

Gersha could believe Malsha had had that much power. “Tilrey didn’t get ‘paid,’ though. Not that way.”

“No.” Artur grimaced. “He didn’t have leverage like I did. He was nobody, and he had shirking on his record. Malsha told me to calm him down, train him, be his friend, reconcile him to his new life. I did my best. Wish I hadn’t.”

The grim set of the man’s mouth hinted at memories too ugly to voice. “Tilrey doesn’t blame you,” Gersha said almost gently. “You _are _his friend, or that’s how he sees you.”

“I know that, and sometimes it makes it worse. But let’s talk about you, _Gersha_. I’m sure you had your own rationalizations. Maybe Tilrey told you he was ‘fine,’ he ‘wasn’t breakable.’ And you chose to believe him.”

Gersha scrubbed his face; the hand came away wet. _I’m not breakable. _Tilrey had told him that over and over; apparently Artur had heard some version of it, too.

He forced himself to speak past the constriction in his throat. “I chose to believe him. I _wanted _to believe him.”

“Even in bed?” Artur’s voice faltered, and Gersha realized he, too, was blinking back tears. “Even when you were intimate with him, night after night? Even when he made you come? Even when he had nightmares? How could you keep telling yourself those lies, Gersha? How could you keep believing the lies he told you?”

A great shudder passed over Gersha as he remembered those early nights with Tilrey, so full of excitement and terror for him. Tilrey had insisted he could handle anything his life dished out. And he _was _tough in ways that Gersha wasn’t, thick-skinned and resilient and adaptable. Wasn’t he?

“You know about the nightmares?” Gersha asked in a small voice.

“Are you asking whether I ever spent the night with him? Not the way you think. But his life was a fucking nightmare at that point, if you want to know the truth.”

Gersha’s first impulse was to express shock, but he knew how Artur would react to that. And rightly, because Gersha had always known there was a time when the nightmares that made Tilrey thrash and cry out had been his waking reality, hadn’t he? Worse—he’d witnessed part of that nightmare.

“The first time we met,” he said, feeling the words yanked out of him. “Before Malsha went into exile. Twelve years ago, almost. Malsha invited me to dinner. He wanted to coax me to have, uh, a threesome with them. The way he talked, the way he _offered _the boy . . . and Tilrey was so young. So scared. So I ran away. Tried to forget it happened. I was so ashamed.”

He’d done his best to bury the memory of that frightened eighteen-year-old boy at Malsha’s side, to forget the boy _was _Tilrey, and until now he’d mostly succeeded.

“So you know what it was like for him, then,” Artur said, his voice less harsh. “That never bothered you later?”

Gersha squeezed his eyes tight shut. “I couldn’t think about it. I knew, but I—I couldn’t let it in.”

It all washed over him again: how dirty and guilty and hideous he’d felt going home after that encounter with Malsha and his kettle boy. He could still feel Malsha’s eyes traveling over his own body, sizing him up, and he didn’t just feel bad because he couldn’t help Tilrey. He felt bad because he had a sinking intuition that Malsha saw him and Tilrey as essentially the same—objects of lust. Pretty toys to play with. “Whores” like Gersha’s mother.

To prove he wasn’t any of that, to prove he was a true Gádden, Gersha had walked away. For selfish reasons. Because he could.

“I couldn’t put myself in his place,” he said, tears blinding him. “I mean, I knew how, but I wasn’t strong enough. I was afraid.”

A red sea of shame boiled, and he let it pull him under. Let it drown him. _So I let myself believe nothing could hurt him. I let him keep getting hurt_.

A touch on his arm brought him back, and he opened his eyes and found Artur standing before him, the lean face tight with pain. “The first step is to admit it, Fir.”

“Gersha.” He choked back something that was almost a sob. “Please.”

The hand withdrew. “Say it every day, Gersha. You were afraid. You are afraid. If you want a revolution, you damn well should be afraid. Stop being such a stupid proud Oslov and admit it.”

Gersha blinked hard to expel a stray tear. “And if I do admit I’m afraid, what happens?”

Artur’s mouth quirked. “Search me. I’m still finding out. But in your case . . . well, maybe it strengthens that marriage bond of yours. Maybe the play-acting gets real.”

***

Vera knocked again at her mother’s door, but there was no answer. The windowless, gray-carpeted hallway was clad in shadows.

Perhaps Albertine had gone to dinner without her; it was well into the evening. Vera had spent the day huddled on the couch watching great gauzy curtains of snow batter the windows. Daylight had faded soon after noon; the darkness seemed to have lasted for centuries.

She’d barely moved since her mother left her after their conversation; hadn’t even made herself tea. The most exertion she’d managed was to use her handheld to ask Lisha to reserve a spot for her on the same transport to the Southern Range that Albertine would take tomorrow morning. Her thoughts kept whirling like the storm, round and round in fruitless circles, holding her body in agonizing stillness.

_I can’t tell Tollsha. I must tell Tollsha. This is the least I can do._

Over and over the same scenes replayed in her mind: those three series of encounters with Tilrey that she’d held so close to her heart. When they were both eighteen, in the spare room of her family’s vacation house. A year or so later, in her student room in Redda. And those meetings in her apartment nearly nine months ago.

Each time, she’d taken the initiative. She’d broken into the room where he was locked up. She’d spotted him in the Library and started a conversation and invited him home with her. She’d asked him to help her with her little marital problem. He never said no. He always seemed friendly, if occasionally edgy or hesitant.

She pretended they were equals, and Tilrey went along with it—or seemed to. When she allowed herself to think about his real status in life at all, she imagined that she was Válya, the clan chief’s daughter, and he was Vodion, enslaved by her father. If she strengthened him with her love, maybe he’d win his freedom with boldness and trickery.

And he _had _won his freedom, but if there was any truth behind the legend, it had disappeared into the snow-mists of time. Perhaps the real Vodion never loved Válya, only used her. Perhaps she only loved him because he was in chains, at her mercy.

Tilrey hadn’t been in chains when they conceived their child. He’d chosen those encounters. But he had a political motive that he took great pains to spell out so there could be no ambiguity.

“Are you looking for the elder Fir’n Linnett?”

Startled out of her bitter thoughts, Vera turned to find Mal. “Yes. Did my mother go to dinner?”

There was an unwonted jauntiness to Mal’s manner, as if he’d been drinking. “Not yet, Fir’n. Dinner’s late on festival days. Your Fir’n mother wanted to see our greenhouses, so Lisha’s taking her on a tour. Meanwhile, she—Lisha—said I should bring you outdoors to see the maze.”

_The maze. _It felt like months ago that Vera had spotted the colored lights from Lisha’s window, but suddenly she wanted very badly to go outdoors and see whatever they’d set up out there. Maybe in the storm, with the snow stinging her cheeks, these hateful thoughts would loosen their hold on her brain.

“I’d like that,” she said. Then, as Mal led the way toward the lift, “But won’t the storm carry us away?”

“Oh, the storm’s let up, Fir’n. It’s just a quiet little snowfall now.”

Vera saw nothing “quiet” about the flakes that buffeted her as she stepped outside a quarter-hour later, snug in her hooded parka and high boots. The wind was no longer a gale, and its chill was tolerable, but the snow still limited visibility in every direction. A latticework of tiny colored lights stretched above her, marking out a sort of plaza. She couldn’t see where they ended, only that the plaza was full of people, dancing and roughhousing and throwing snowballs.

The throb of a bass guitar tugged at her, joined by a drumbeat, a gong, and the unearthly keen of a theremin. A girl stood on a podium whisper-singing into a microphone, supported by three bandmates: “Don’t let me drown in the long winter’s night; / My sweet love, keep me alight. / Burn me with your fire, freeze me with your grace, / Spin and spin till we leave no trace.”

Vera couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard music, recorded or live—back in university? Music was for lovesick teenagers and Drudges. But everybody knew this song—green hells, _this song_. Her hips swayed without her conscious consent, mirroring the movements of the dancers—some entwining sinuously in twos and threes, others floundering gracelessly through the snow.

“Would you like to dance, Fir’n?”

Mal was grinning a bit too wide—she must look ridiculous. Yet he held out his hand like he meant it. “You’re catching the beat.”

What did it matter? She was leaving tomorrow. Without a word, Vera took the gloved hand and let Mal lead her out among the dancers.

At first, they stayed at arm’s length. But as the singer launched into the second chorus, he caught her around the waist and spun her, making her gasp. Mal backed off again, respecting her space, and Vera allowed herself to breathe. It was just a song, just a dance, just festival play. She found herself closing the distance between them, relaxing into the guidance of his strong arms.

Everybody around them laughed a little too hard and lurched a little too often. Vera hadn’t sampled the punch, of course, but she felt drunk, too, the cold making her thick-skinned and light-headed. When they collided with a slow-moving flotilla of five dancers, she laughed in wild abandon. _Spin and spin till we leave no trace._

The song was the highlight of a musical retelling of the Vodion/Válya legend that Vera had watched and rewatched on the cylinder as a child. On the podium, a boy had joined his voice to the girl’s: “Bright eyes in the blizzard, warm breath in the storm; / Freezing together, we’re far from harm.”

The last chord sounded, jarring and yearning and resigned at once. She wanted to keep spinning, but Mal jerked them to a halt. “Not too cold yet, Fir’n?”

Vera shook her head. She wasn’t cold at all. She yelled to be heard above the raucous crowd: “What about the maze?”

The entrance to the maze loomed just beyond the dance floor: Two pillars of sculpted snow rose above their heads, each topped with a flame-pink LED. They stepped through and found themselves in a corridor with smooth walls of packed snow on either side. The top was open to the air, but Vera could barely see over it, even when she stood on tiptoe and craned her neck. Here they were isolated from the rest of the festival.

“Lead the way, Fir’n,” Mal said.

Lights outlined the top of each pathway—the glittering trail she’d seen from Lisha’s window—but they were less visible down here. The walls of snow glowed softly with reflected radiance, dimming the farther they ventured from the entrance.

Reaching a fork, Vera turned right; if she kept this up, she wouldn’t get lost. She expected to step out into the wind again any minute, but the passages twisted and turned and doubled back. The falling snow, spectrally backlit by the LEDs—pink, white, orange, amethyst—didn’t improve her sense of direction. Here and there, the sculptors had placed icy benches for revelers to rest, but every bench and intersection looked the same.

Music sounded again in the distance. The snow walls warped the pitch as if they were underwater, and Vera couldn’t place the song. She took another right and came up against a dead end.

“This is silly,” she said, bending to scoop up a handful of snow. She shaped it into a ball and used it to mark the intersection, setting it atop the closest wall. “We need to treat this systematically. Make a trail. Unless you have a better idea?”

She turned to see what Mal thought and found only a shadowy corridor.

“Mal?” Vera backtracked, her gloved hand feeling along the icy wall. He couldn’t be far. He wouldn’t have abandoned her. When had she last seen him, though? At the next turning, she went left, retracing her steps toward the entrance. Yes, this was familiar. Hadn’t she passed through this wash of sapphire light?

Her toes were starting to tingle. She could hear the laughter and shouts of the revelers frustratingly close by. If he was playing a prank, it wasn’t funny. “Mal!” she called, louder.

Left. Another bench. Left again. She should be so close now. The cold stiffened her joints, slowing her progress, and she remembered how she and Tilrey had imagined living in an ice palace like the Frozen Princess. _I’d have to be magic with ice running through my veins_.

Sometimes Tilrey did seem to have ice running through his veins; sometimes he was so cruel to her. No, not cruel exactly—it wasn’t his fault. It was her fault, or rather it was her father’s fault but also her fault, or everyone’s fault, or rather—well, never mind. The point was, _she_ couldn’t live in this palace. She couldn’t survive here much longer; their child needed warmth.

Vera staggered around a corner, ready to run the last few meters out of the maze—and collided with a wall.

_This shouldn’t be here. _She punched the snow in frustration. Grainy shards of ice gave way, but the wall stood firm, and Vera turned to backtrack, a whimper rising in her throat. What was wrong with Mal? How could he—

“Fir’n?”

The figure forming from the darkness wasn’t Mal, only a sturdily built young woman, but relief washed over Vera. “Here. Please!”

“Mal got a buzz from the Supervisor and had to run,” the woman said calmly, reaching her. “He asked me to make sure you got out safely.”

“Thank everything green.” Vera grabbed the woman’s sleeve before she could stop herself. “Why did they make it so devilishly twisty? You’re not going to leave me, too, are you?”

“Of course not.” Apparently unfazed by her panicked grip, her new guide turned and headed for the next intersection.

Vera forced herself to release the woman’s parka and followed, teeth chattering. This was mortifying, but she would worry about that once they were safe indoors. “What’s your name?” she asked, eager to strengthen her connection to her rescuer.

“Arno, Magdalena. People call me Dal.”

_Dal. _Why did that sound familiar? The woman had dark braids, a broad face, expressive brows. Striking features, but not pretty ones. “Do you know Tilrey?”

They came to a jerky pause, halfway to a fork. “Tilrey Bronn? Do _you _know him, Fir’n?”

Something in the stranger’s tone, almost possessive, jarred Vera’s brain back into a semblance of logic. “You’re his Dal,” she said, remembering her very first meeting with Tilrey. “He told me you used to tease him about studying too much.”

Moving again, Dal made a sound that could have been annoyed or amused. “He told you about me, Fir’n?”

The honorific landed like an accusation, but Vera couldn’t be bothered by that now. Dal had taken a left turn, and the entrance was in sight, its dark maw looming ahead between the faintly glowing pillars. _At last. _Vera sped toward safety with as much dignity as she could muster, though her small toes and fingertips had gone numb and her sinuses throbbed.

When she reached the opening, someone stood in the way. Shorter than Vera, Dal had planted herself across the corridor. “Is that why you’re here, Fir’n?” she asked. “Something to do with Tilrey?”

“Of course not.” Vera drew herself up to her full height.

“Because Lisha says you’re here to learn about our factories. If you know her son so well that he told you all about his old friends, it’s odd you didn’t mention that to his mother.”

The woman’s voice was dark with suspicion. Maybe she, like Mal, thought this all had something to do with Int/Sec; maybe Mal had sent her here specifically to find out. Maybe they’d trapped Vera in the maze on purpose.

“I did tell Lisha! I said—” But, as Vera started to repeat what she’d told Lisha, all the while outraged at herself for explaining to someone who didn’t need or deserve an explanation, something shifted deep inside her like a clenched fist opening. She tried to ignore it, stepping around Dal—_just get inside_.

Before she could take another step, warm liquid slid down her thighs. Whatever she’d been going to say evaporated. She slumped back against the pillar as a sharp pain grabbed her round the abdomen and cut her in two. “Inside! Think I’m going into labor.”

Time fragmented into distinct parcels. One moment she was having trouble holding herself upright, the lights swaying around her, and Dal’s solid shoulder was wedging itself under her arm. “We’ll get there, Fir’n. Just a few steps.” Then they were stumbling under the lattice of lights, the snow lashing their faces as Dal called out in her strong voice, “Get me emergency services!”

Then they were inside. Dal and someone else were helping her out of her coat and boots. “I’m all right,” Vera protested. But another contraction seized her, twisting her in knots of agony, and she let someone’s arms lower her into a waiting wheelchair.

Then she and Dal were in a lift, the floors flashing upward. Dal was saying something about a team being ready upstairs, and how far apart were the contractions?

Vera needed to count. She needed to breathe. She knew this. But just for a moment, one thing was more important. “Lisha,” she said, no longer caring whom she was talking to or what anyone here thought of her. “My mother, too. But Lisha. Please, I want her there. Tell her. This is her grandson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Vera was schooled about not being empathetic to Tilrey, and now it's Gersha's turn! Tilrey and Gersha's first meeting [is described in more detail here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20006104/chapters/50916634) in the prequel, including Gersha's reaction when he goes home afterward. Whether it excuses him or not, that reaction is very Gersha.
> 
> You just knew the kid wasn't going to be delivered anywhere but Thurskein, right? :) I'll take any excuse for a soap-opera twist. Thank you so much for reading! :)


	15. Up on the House-Top

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely nothing holiday-ish about this chapter, but it was right there, so I couldn't resist. :) Thanks for reading! We'll be back in Thurskein soon, after a little detour to Redda.

The second full day of the storm was blue as a bruise and already darkening slightly after noon, the daylit interval like a fleeting dream. Snow flurried as Tilrey and Artur went outdoors to shovel the paths and vents once again. Peering hard at the western horizon, Tilrey saw a distant sliver of pink that hinted the sky might clear someday.

“How’d you sleep?” Artur asked. “Bed not too lumpy?”

“Just fine, thanks.” Despite their unresolved argument over the “guests” from Harbour, Artur seemed intent on being a good host. They’d had a civil enough dinner last night, with amusing interruptions from the children, and then Artur and Moneta had insisted on giving Gersha and Tilrey their bed and making do with pallets in front of the kitchen stove.

Whatever Artur had told Gersha during their private conversation yesterday, it didn’t seem to have made Gersha unhappy, just quiet. Tilrey wanted to ask about it, but discussing anything was hard in these close quarters, and the intense cold and the weight of the blankets put him out like a light. For once he had no memory of drifting off to sleep listening to his husband’s breathing.

“Tonight,” he told Artur now, “we’ll do the camping out. I don’t like putting you out of your room.”

Artur scraped his shovel across stone with an unpleasant grating noise. “And how would Fir Councillor react to sleeping on the floor?”

“He’s had worse.” Tilrey dug his shovel into a bank of hardened snow and lifted. The healthy burn in his arms and the focus on the task were just barely keeping him from losing his temper. “What did you say to Gersha, anyway?” he asked, letting the load slide into the ditch. “I shouldn’t have left you alone with him.”

It was hard to tell through the dusk, but he thought Artur grinned cockily. “I didn’t say anything he doesn’t already know. An Upstart doesn’t just stop being a good little Upstart because he claims to be a Dissident, Rishka. It’s something you’ve got to work at every day.”

“So you don’t trust Gersha? Still?”

“I never said that.”

_Stay on target_, Tilrey reminded himself. He was here to get the names of the Resurgent infiltrators, not Artur’s blessing on his relationship. The problem was, the two methods he knew of convincing people to give up information were threatening and incentivizing. He didn’t want to threaten his friend, and he was pretty sure Artur wasn’t interested in sex, material goods, patronage or political favors.

What, then? He could usually tell what people wanted from him, even when they tried to hide it. There was a sheen to the eyes, an intense eagerness to get close to him. Artur did have a certain intensity, but—

All of a sudden, Tilrey thought he understood. “Do you want Gersha to leave me? Or me to leave Gersha? Do you think I’d be better off without him?”

Artur stabbed his shovel into the heavy bank that Tilrey had been attacking. He transferred three loads to the ditch before saying, “It’s not _him. _He’s decent—I can see that. He’s trying. But Rishka, be frank with me. Are you doing this shirking thing _for _him?”

Tilrey’s laugh was half gasp of surprise. “Are you kidding? I had to hide the shirking from Gersha for years. When he found out, he—”

“Threw you out. I know. Fir Councillor was painfully honest with me, I’ll give him that. But he was the one who handed you over to Egil, wasn’t he? And after Egil recruited you to the cause, you had to go along with it.”

Tilrey launched his shovel at the bank again. “I did not ‘have to’ do anything. Why’s it so hard for you to grasp that I believe in what I’m doing?”

“Because I’ve seen too many true believers.” Artur rested his shovel against the house wall, panting. “All those kids from Resurgence, the ones you call ‘infiltrators’—Colonel Thibault brainwashes them. She winds them up like little automata and sends them here to serve her absurd delusions. But you’re not like those kids—not naïve. I’d hate to think of anybody using you that way.”

“And nobody is.” Artur wasn’t stupid; surely he could see that. Maybe the problem was that Tilrey himself hadn’t revealed enough, and Artur knew him well enough to tell.

He stuck his own shovel in the bank and leaned on it. “You’re not entirely wrong. The shirkers _have _tried to use me, and for a while, I let them. I almost had to; people I know in Thurskein are involved. But things changed in Harbour: I took charge there. If you want to know the truth, I’m here now because I want to convince the leaders that I’m worthy of being in their inner circle. That’s why I keep asking you these questions you refuse to answer. I want leverage.”

Artur’s grimace might have been disbelief or only exhaustion. “So you want to use _me_.”

“But you already know that, don’t you? All this stuff about Gersha and me, about the past—you’re trying to distract me. You’re hoping I’ll give up and go away.”

“Bullshit,” Artur spat.

“I don’t blame you. You have a family. In your place, I’d be scared, too.” _What does he want? How do I give it to him? _“But I can protect you, Artur. _We _can protect you. I can’t get specific, obviously, but we’re a more extensive movement than you realize. We can—”

“Would you _stop _it?” Artur gave the stone foundation a kick. “Green hells, Gersha wasn’t kidding. You’re a fucking politician. Attack, coax, parry, attack again. Would you just be yourself for a second? I meant it yesterday when I said you sounded like Malsha.”

“I’m not Malsha.” Now that Tilrey was standing still, he could feel the cold sneaking its tendrils around him, wrapping him in that blanket of fatigue. He’d been angry yesterday when Artur made the comparison, but he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t had the same thought himself. “I’m just . . . what I am. I learned from Malsha. I learned from everybody.”

That strange, yearning sheen was back in Artur’s eyes. “You did what you had to do to survive, and now you’re in a position to undermine the whole system. Whether shirking is suicidal or not, I respect the hell out of that. But Rishka . . .” He wrapped his arms around himself. “Look. Have you ever wondered why Malsha left you behind? When he escaped to Harbour?”

Tilrey hadn’t thought for years about that ugly transition in his life. But there’d been a time, long before Gersha, when he very much wanted to know why. When he might even have wished he hadn’t been left behind.

He shrugged. “Malsha was in too much of a rush. By the time he knew his crime was discovered, soldiers were already on the way to arrest him. He fled straight from the Sector to a plane he had waiting in the Outer Ring.”

“Is that what they told you? Verán, the Islanders? Well, it’s wrong. Malsha had about two hours’ lead time to save his skin.”

Tilrey’s heart lurched as if it were still ten years ago, as if the past were rewritable. He couldn’t meet Artur’s eyes as his friend went on:

“While he and Krisha went ahead to the port, Malsha sent me back to the apartment to fetch you. He said, ‘Tell Rishka I’ve had a heart attack and I want to see him in the hospital. I can’t wait to see his disappointment when he finds out I’m not actually at death’s door.’”

“Bastard.” Tilrey remembered that day. He’d been reading in bed when two soldiers strode into his room, shoved him against the wall, and handcuffed him. What time had that been? They pricked his neck with something that drowned his mind in a gray fog, and when he woke in a cell, time ceased to mean anything. “Well, anyway,” he said, “whenever you came for me, it was too late. Or too early—I was at the gym all morning.”

“No,” Artur said. “It was afternoon. I took the tram to the apartment. When I came into the coldroom, I saw your things. The slush on your boots hadn’t melted yet, so I figured you’d just come in. I was about to touch the door sensor, and then . . . well, I turned around and left. I went back out to the port and told Malsha I’d seen soldiers outside the apartment.”

“You lied to him?” Artur had talked plenty of shit about Malsha when he was in the man’s employ, but Tilrey had never seen him disobey a direct order.

Artur nodded. “I said, ‘It’s too late, they have him,’ and Malsha just stared at me. His face fell apart, piece by piece, in a way I never saw before or since. He didn’t get angry. Just crumbled. And then he said, ‘Ah well. Maybe he’ll be better off. Let’s go.’”

The tears surprised Tilrey. He swabbed his eyes with his sleeve, hoping Artur didn’t notice. “He never mentioned that when I saw him in Harbour. Maybe he wanted me to think he abandoned me on purpose.”

“That would be like him.” Artur dropped his eyes, then raised them. “But see, here’s the thing, Rishka. I made a split-second decision, and ten years later, I still don’t know if it was the right one. _Were _you better off?”

So this was what Artur wanted. Confirmation, and maybe absolution. “Of course,” Tilrey said automatically. “You set me free from him.”

“But you weren’t actually free, were you?” Artur’s eyes rested on him, pinched and haunted. “The Island put you in a cell, Gersha told me. A Dissident took advantage and recruited you. If you’d fled to Harbour with us, I could have protected you. Malsha has a lot less power there than he did back home. When I got away from him, when I went to the Colonel’s court, I could have taken you with me.”

For a dizzying moment, Tilrey imagined the alternate pathway his life could have taken. Years in Resurgence with Artur by his side, getting to know a fascinating, dangerous new world. _And I would never have known Gersha._

“I _was_ better off,” he said, reaching over to rest his hand on Artur’s arm. “I understand the second-guessing. But you did the right thing.”

“But . . . the Island. Verán.” Artur’s voice was choked. “Three whole years with assholes who had every reason to want to hurt you. I’ve been blaming Gersha. But maybe it’s _my_ fault you’re a traitor now. I left you to that. I could’ve stopped it from happening.”

“I would be a traitor either way.” Tilrey’s voice was sharper than he intended. “Your life in exile hasn’t been easy, either, has it? You’re not responsible for me, Turshka. You never were. What if you’d come into the apartment to get me and I’d refused to go? What if I’d sensed something wrong?”

“In those days you followed orders without question.”

“Well, it’s not ‘those days’ anymore.” Tilrey removed his hand and grabbed the shovel again. He needed to get his blood flowing so his frustration didn’t spill over. “How many times do I need to tell you that? I’m not one of your scared little Resurgent spies, Turshka. I want to _help _them, to give them a chance at a better life. They’re out there terrified and isolated and entrusted with what’s probably a suicide mission, and they don’t have to be. They could be part of something bigger.”

Artur looked miserable. “They’ve got a better chance by themselves.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know the Colonel. I couldn’t actually tell them she’s a duplicitous madwoman and her grand plan is a last resort. But with the smarter ones, I hinted. If they have any sense, they’ll blend into the Oslov population and forget they were born Resurgents. It’s the only way they’ll survive.”

Tilrey heaved a shovelful of snow into the yard. “Obeying orders, getting on your knees for Strutters, selling yourself—that’s _not _the only way to survive. You should know that. Maybe this ‘last resort’ plan has a chance of succeeding; maybe it’s something that could make all the difference. But I’ll never know if you don’t tell me.”

Artur locked eyes with him. “You never stop being that fucking politician, do you? Fine. You want to know what the Colonel’s insane, inane grand plan is?”

Tilrey nodded, trying to infuse his gaze with all his sincere faith in revolution.

“Race you up to the chimney.”

“I—what?” But Tilrey had no time to process this train of thought—Artur had already tossed his shovel to the ground and was disappearing around the corner of the house.

Tilrey dropped his own shovel and dashed after him—then stopped short. The chimney loomed straight above him, a tower of rough stones and crude masonry. Artur was obviously expecting him to follow, but he’d find his own way, and it might even be quicker. To his right was a line of barrels beneath the eaves.

_Race you back here! Race you to the fifty-meter line! _Artur liked to issue challenges, back when they went to the gym together, and he never seemed to mind when Tilrey (usually) won. Later, Tilrey suspected it was Artur’s way of distracting him from whatever was making him sad at the moment.

One more for old times’ sake? He dragged out a barrel and clambered onto it. Face to face with the icy edge of the roof, he ripped off the padded gloves that would keep him from getting a good purchase. The barrel wobbled dangerously under him, and he lunged at the roof and swung himself up.

And nearly slid straight back down. He fought for his grip on the ice-encrusted shingles, grunting with the effort, legs flailing in midair.

His bare fingers were already going numb, and for a moment he seemed about to lose his hold and tumble onto the stone walkway. _Shit. _Hugging the roof like a lover, he wondered if the snow would cushion his fall. But just as his fingers failed him, he managed to get a knee over.

He caught his breath, his cheek wedged against snow and slate, the cold wind whistling over his back. Then he rose gingerly to hands and knees and scaled the shingles (_don’t look down_) to the peak of the roof where the stone chimney loomed.

Artur waited there, leaning against the chimney with a rakish grin. “There’s a ladder on the other side. Couldn’t just do anything the easy way, could you?”

“Fuck you,” Tilrey grunted, too exhausted to feel anything. He yanked himself up the last few inches and slumped against the chimney, tucking his numb hands under his armpits. “Not funny. Could’ve been killed.”

“I wanted to see if you really wanted it,” Artur said. “I think you do.”

***

Sounds of thumping on the roof made Gersha jerk his head up in alarm. “Is that a bear?”

The elder girl, Cintra, laughed raucously. “Bears don’t climb houses.”

“What is it, then?” Gersha and the two children were ensconced before the kitchen stove on a pile of blankets and pelts—the latter of which were a little distasteful but, he had to admit, very warm. Moneta had instructed him to “tell them a story” and disappeared into the other room.

Another thud from above. Gersha eased the younger girl off his lap, which she’d summarily appropriated, and rose to scrutinize the rafters. Something _was _happening up there. Should he go find Moneta, or would she laugh, too?

“I want to hear the rest of the story about the Owl King,” Avalyn complained, her lower lip trembling.

“It’s too scary for you,” her sister said. “You’ll get nightmares!”

“Girls, shush!” It was Moneta, sticking her head through the doorway. “My idiot husband,” she told Gersha, “is up on the roof for some reason, and so is your friend. Maybe it’s cabin fever. Meanwhile, I just received a message from the sergeant back at the base, which she insists I deliver to your friend and no one else. I’m going out to—”

Before she could finish, the heavy outer door burst open with a crash. Artur’s voice called jovially, “We need blankets! Tea! And your med kit—I think Tilrey’s cut himself on the shingles.”

“Idiots,” Moneta said gravely to Gersha, shaking her head. But when Tilrey and Artur arrived in the kitchen, red-faced and panting with big, sheepish grins, she smiled despite herself. “What were you doing up there—dancing? It’s almost dark. Did you finish the shoveling?”

Artur pulled out a chair and steered Tilrey into it. “I told you, he’s wounded. First aid, woman!”

“I’m okay, really.” Tilrey shot Gersha an apologetic glance. “We were just having a friendly competition for old times’ sake.”

Moneta gave her husband a scathing look, then came over and examined Tilrey’s extended hand with professional detachment. Gersha wanted to see the damage, too—he didn’t trust Tilrey not to downplay it—but Avalyn was tugging impatiently on his hand, trying to get him to sit down with her again.

To Gersha’s relief, Moneta seemed unalarmed by Tilrey’s wounds. “Come along to the other room, Tilrey,” she said, “where we can have peace and quiet while I bandage your scrapes. I’ve got a message for you, too.”

Artur frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m going to make a declaration of love to your old friend.” Moneta winked at him. “Don’t fret, sweetheart. I was asked to tell Tilrey something privately, that’s all. Gersha, are these little wildcats plaguing you?”

Eager to play the part, Cintra growled and scratched the air. “Not at all,” Gersha assured her mother too quickly—and realized that, without thinking, he’d let Avalyn take possession of his lap again.

He’d never held a child before. His cousins’ kids barely noticed him at family gatherings, and he’d always found the young ones a bit unnerving, so small and easy to hurt accidentally. But if his discomfort showed, Avalyn wasn’t bothered. She wound a surprisingly strong arm around his waist, her hair brushing his chin, and demanded “the rest of the story,” as businesslike as a Councillor questioning an Admin at a research session.

As Tilrey followed Moneta into the other room, his eyes met Gersha’s over the child’s head. He smiled—not the usual radiant grin, but something soft and fleeting, as if the sight touched a part of him that was seldom touched. “I think Gersha will be fine here,” he said.

When they were gone, Artur fetched fuel for the stove, and Gersha finished the story. He censored the imagery that had given him nightmares when his mother told it, but he didn’t change the basic narrative. Both children listened quietly, with wide eyes.

After he was done, they were both quiet for an instant. Then Cintra scrambled up, released from the spell, and ran around the room crying, “_Hoo, hoo!_ I’m the Owl Queen!” She mimed clawing at her sister’s face. “I’m coming for you with my talons!”

“Stop that!” Gersha admonished, trying to shield the younger girl. He was reminded of his cousins, who’d tormented him as a child with their loud roughhousing when all he wanted to do was read.

But Avalyn leapt up and brandished her nails right back. “Mine are longer!”

Soon they were chasing each other around the room, laughing and panting and gasping. “Little wildcats” was barely an exaggeration, Gersha decided as Tilrey and Moneta returned to the kitchen.

While Moneta wrangled her offspring, issuing dire warnings about being sent to bed without dinner, Gersha cornered Tilrey behind the stove.

“What is it?” he asked as softly as he could while being heard over the commotion, then mouthed the words _True Hearth?_

If Tilrey had seemed calm and happy earlier, now his face wore a tense mask that Gersha was all too familiar with. But there was something else there, too, that Gersha couldn’t read.

So he let Tilrey take him around the waist, pull him in close, and bend to speak directly in his ear: “It was my mother. Bosh got her message at home and redirected it to Aurinthal. The boy’s been born.”

“Your son?” Gersha asked, feeling stupid. Everything that had happened in Redda seemed to belong to another life. But even allowing for his disorientation, nothing made sense. “Your _mother_ sent the message? Why would she—how could she even know that?”

“That,” Tilrey said darkly, “is the question. Mother and child healthy—that’s all she says. And she wants me—us—to come to Thurskein immediately.”

***

Gersha couldn’t sleep. Their bed on the kitchen floor was surprisingly comfortable, but the thought of what awaited them in Thurskein was a slab of ice sitting unmelted in his gut. He watched the flickering light of the stove burnish Tilrey’s cheek, one of the few spots where bare skin was exposed.

When Tilrey opened his eyes, Gersha immediately snapped his closed. But Tilrey only said, “Can’t sleep either?” and rolled over so their shoulders touched.

Gersha snuggled tentatively into his husband’s warmth. After his conversation with Artur yesterday, he felt almost timid, wanting to let Tilrey take the lead.

Tilrey’s breath was warm on his ear. “Are you worried, sweetheart? Please, don’t be. I have to say, I didn’t think Vera had that kind of sheer nerve. I wonder if she managed to enlist my mother in the cause of getting my hand in marriage.”

Gersha nuzzled him, trying to convey reassurance—that was his job now, wasn’t it? Never mind that it hurt him to hear Tilrey speak so flippantly about marrying Vera. “Your mother doesn’t let Upstarts push her around. Besides . . .” He sighed, hiding his face in Tilrey’s neck.

“What, love?”

_Don’t treat him like your property. He never was that. _“If you want to marry her,” Gersha said, “if you think it’s best, I won’t stand in the way.”

Tilrey pushed him away enough so they could lock eyes. “We already discussed this. If I married Vera and forced her to Lower herself, it would bring exactly the wrong kind of attention to me—and to us. No one in the Sector would speak to me after that, let alone trust me.”

What he was saying made sense, but Gersha couldn’t help finding it a little cold, one more political calculation. “What about your child? What if he’s better off with a father?”

“Tollsha can be his dad. _Should _be his dad. He’ll be better off as the son of two high Upstarts, and Vera should know that. As should you.”

_He’ll be better off. _Wasn’t that one of the rationalizations Artur had used when he’d chosen to train Tilrey as a kettle boy rather than risking his own comfortable life to help him? It wasn’t the same situation, of course, but . . . “Won’t you miss him?” Gersha asked. “Knowing him, I mean? Your son?”

They looked at each other. The ruddy light turned Tilrey’s golden locks to a halo, giving Gersha a sudden urge to kiss him. But his eyes remained in shadow, and Gersha stayed still.

He half expected that beautiful mouth to twist in disapproval, reprimanding him for overstepping his bounds. After all, if Tilrey didn’t care about knowing his son, didn’t want to know his son, how was that Gersha’s business? And if Gersha felt a sudden strange yearning to hold this still-unknown child, to place protective arms around him and tell him stories, to keep him safe from harm in the way that Tilrey had not been kept safe, he should keep that to himself. The child wasn’t _his_.

But the child was Tilrey’s, and he loved everything that was Tilrey’s. Could he help that?

No reprimand came. Tilrey stroked Gersha’s hair back from his forehead and kissed him between the eyes, sending a soft shiver from Gersha’s scalp down his spine to his toes.

Gersha closed his eyes, swooning a little into the sensation. “I’m sorry,” he said, determined not to let himself be distracted by their closeness.

“Don’t be.”

“But I shouldn’t have. He isn’t—”

“I love that you asked that.” Tilrey’s voice was very quiet. “I love that you care.”

_But you don’t agree with me? You don’t feel like you’d be missing something? _Gersha kept the words to himself this time. And then they were in each other’s arms, where sleep came with surprising speed.

***

“Are you really going to send me away empty-handed?” Tilrey asked.

Artur laughed cryptically. It was still hours before dawn. The snow had picked up again last night, and again they were shoveling, now with the aid of headlamps. Though he loved the outdoors, Tilrey didn’t think he’d miss blinking away the whirling flakes that melted on his lips and in his nostrils.

Last night he’d tried to absorb that he was a father, but it didn’t feel like anything, not yet. He wasn’t eager to rush off to Thurskein and deal with Vera; if anything, he was more affected by the way thoughts of his child seemed to affect Gersha. The longing in Gersha’s voice when he spoke of the child had touched Tilrey in an unfamiliar way, as had the sight of Artur’s kid on his husband’s knee.

Gersha was just so careful with the little hellion, so concerned. _He might make a good father. Not me._

“Threaten me,” Artur said, digging the shovel into an icy crust.

“What?”

“You said something nice to me yesterday—that was the carrot. Now use the stick. Show me you’re not a piece anymore.”

“More games? Really?” With their departure for the base, and then for Thurskein, only hours away, Tilrey wanted to savor these last moments with his old friend. Threats were the last thing on his mind.

Artur’s eyes glinted teasingly inside his furry hood. “Indulge me. Say what Malsha would want you to say. I want to see your steely side.”

“Seriously?” Tilrey planted his shovel in the snow and tried to summon the voice of Malsha in his head. After everything that had happened over the past few days, it wasn’t easy to access the colder, harder person he was in the Sector. Even there, he generally kept his “steely side” under wraps.

Then he remembered Besha pointing out to him how little he actually knew about the True Hearth, and Mirella forbidding him to meet directly with Irin. _I got them an alliance with the Duke, and still they treat me like nobody_. Yes, he was a father now, but what could a nobody give a child? What could a nobody give anyone?

He needed to put his sentimental weaknesses aside. He needed to be _more_.

His throat tightened—but the next part was easy. Practically scripted for him. “You’ve drawn this out long enough, Turshka. If you don’t give me the names of those Resurgent infiltrators, I’ll hand your location over to Int/Sec. Believe me, I have ways of doing it without incriminating myself.”

For an instant, Artur stared at him with what looked like actual alarm. Then he did three slow claps, his eyes glittering as if Tilrey had performed a trick. “That’s more like it. You’re going to need all that steel and more to survive a revolution, my friend.”

“And?” Tilrey didn’t have to feign his impatience.

Artur grinned. “I’ll tell you something. Just not everything.” His face settled into a steeliness of its own, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “I said no names, and I mean that. I gave every one of these kids their Oslov names; I won’t betray them. If you really want to find them, you’ll have to hunt them down yourself. But the master plan? I can tell you about that.”

He stepped closer and placed a hand on Tilrey’s shoulder. For a moment, they scrutinized each other through the flying flakes that glared under the headlamps. Then Artur said, “Promise me one thing, Rishka. If you stick with this revolution, I don’t want you to let these shirkers use you like a puppet.”

“I never—”

Artur cut him off. “No more following orders. You’re a leader, Tilrey—you may not see that yet, but I do. You’ll use this information like a leader. There has to be a reason I decided to leave you behind in Redda that day. If the old order of Oslov is going to go up in flames, I want you to be the one who throws the match.”


	16. They Have a Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah for approaching Yuletide and more time to write! I'll post another short chapter in the next few days and see where I can go from there. We will return shortly to Thurskein, Baby, and the conclave of grandmothers. :)
> 
> The "lines of power" are from Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind."

Sometimes while she worked, Einara recited the key to Oslov silently to herself. _Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams / The blue Mediterranean, where he lay / Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams . . .”_

The lines had been drilled into her so thoroughly that she doubted it was in her power to forget them. Lines of power, stolen from Harbourer poetry by the founder Whyberg himself. Lines that, when inserted into the Oslovs’ version of the Light Web at exactly the right five terminals at the same time, could override the vast heating plants and turn the city of Redda to a frozen ruin.

Or so she’d been told. When you took into account that Einara was effectively a prisoner in the Sanctioned Brothel and that these supposedly vulnerable terminals were located all over Oslov, underground and probably guarded, the mission that Colonel Thibault had given her seemed about as feasible as flying to the moon. Bringing down all of Oslov was an absurd notion, a dream. Artur Threindal had told her that when she was still a naïve teen, and her subsequent experiences had proved it.

But her goals were more modest than the Colonel’s. Killing a single Oslov? That could be doable, provided she knew which one.

“Ohhh, more of that, please,” Councillor Linbeck moaned, facedown on the bed. “Right there—no, no, not _there_, you silly wench. To the right. Yes. Yessss.”

Einara compressed the ridge of the Councillor’s erector spinae with her fingertips, working up toward the base of the skull, and wondered idly if her hands were strong and clever enough to strangle him. She hadn’t killed anyone in years, but he was such a spindly little man.

She had no reason to kill this Oslov in particular, though, and Irin Dartán wanted information from him.

Linbeck crooned with satisfaction. “I’m so tight from all that sitting listening to Admins pontificate about their stupid sectors. And those chairs are so hard. My ass and shoulders are on fire. I hate end-of-year reports.”

“That’s why I’m here, Fir Councillor. To help you forget all that.” Einara made her voice warm and seductive. She was doing her best to follow Irin’s advice for buttering up the Councillor, something she rarely bothered to do. She’d been trained in seduction, but maybe it hadn’t taken. Unless a patron seemed likely to know things of interest to her, she put in the minimum effort required.

Before tonight, Linbeck hadn’t seemed to mind her quiet passivity, filling the space between them with his rambling monologues. Now, though, a little encouragement was making him chatty. “Call me Besha, please,” he said, squirming under her powerful fingers. “You know, until today, I wasn’t sure you were capable of speaking in full sentences.”

_And I wasn’t sure you were capable of actually noticing me. _“I’m not stupid, Fir—Besha.” She ran her hands down to knead his hips. “I just listen more than I talk.”

In the background, her brain continued to drone through the verses: _And saw in sleep old palaces and towers / Quivering within the wave’s intenser day . . ._

“I talk enough for two people, don’t I?” The Councillor laughed almost self-consciously.

“I don’t mind, Fir. I like it when you talk.” She dug in with her thumbs, hoping she sounded harmless and naïve but not slow. It was a delicate balance. “I do have a question for you, though.”

“Ask away.” Again the nervous laugh, as if he cared, just a sliver, what she thought of him. He hadn’t seemed to care when he was tying her up and using her with no regard for her pleasure.

“Who’s Rishka?” she asked.

Besha groaned and rolled onto his back, pushing her hands away. “You had to ask that.”

“I’m sorry, Fir! Was that wrong?” She kept her tone as light as possible. “But you did just—well, you know, back when we—”

“I called you by his name. I know, I know.” The little man threw a crooked arm dramatically over his eyes.

“Rishka is a boy?”

“He was—and what a boy.” A sigh.

“I remind you of a boy, Fir?” She was genuinely incredulous on that score.

“Of course not, love. Not that way.” Besha patted her flank. “It’s mainly your complexion that reminds me of my . . . friend. That skin so pale that your golden hair turns dark against it. Those luminous blue eyes. And something in your expression, too—a hint of fierceness beneath the submission. Green hells, how that hint of fierceness used to obsess me.” He released a shuddering sigh. “You know, I used to take Rishka for granted because he was at my disposal the way you are.”

_At my disposal. _It was one of those formal phrases Councillors used, like _Please oblige me _and _I’d like to enjoy your favors. _It all just meant they wanted to fuck you and you didn’t have much of a choice about it. “Was Rishka a whore, Fir?”

“Technically, yes, but so much more than that.” Misty sentiment veiled the man’s eyes. “He used to play dumb with me—practically mute, the way you were until today. Sometimes he’d be cheeky, but only because he knew I liked it. When he finally showed me who he really was, I was a bit terrified, and I convinced myself I wasn’t seeing what I was seeing. But then—well, then I opened my eyes and really saw him, bit by bit. And I wanted him even more. All of him. Now he haunts me sometimes.”

_Are you in love with him? _Using the Oslov word for romantic love was dangerous, Einara had learned. No one wanted to admit to feeling anything stronger than a familial bond. “Your friend sounds very lovely,” she said instead.

“Too lovely for his own good. Lie down, sweetheart. Show me.” Besha rolled her onto her back and took her chin in his hand, tipping her face into the light. “Oh yes, that hint of blush on the cheek. So innocent—or is it? The first time I took Rishka to bed, I was halfway afraid of him. He was so big. I asked to tie him up, as a sort of test—would he really obey me? When he said yes to that, I still wasn’t convinced he wouldn’t try to turn the tables, so I invented a little role-play of dominance and submission. I think having a script was easier for both of us.”

Einara made her body go pliable. She locked eyes with the Councillor for an instant before letting her lashes droop. “Why does he haunt you? Your Rishka? He’s not dead, is he?”

Besha’s laugh had a superior edge this time. “Haunting is a figure of speech, darling. No, he’s very much alive. He’s not _mine _anymore, hasn’t been for some time. Never, really. But that’s not the part that troubles me.”

“No?” She flashed him another shy glance. “You’re not angry he’s with someone else?”

Besha shook his head. The hair tumbling in his eyes made him look young, more like one of the callow pages at the Colonel’s court than a Councillor of anything. “I’ve had time to get over my jealousy.”

“That shows strength of character, Fir.” Oslovs loved to be complimented on their cleverness or their “strength of character,” a word that could also mean “discipline” or sometimes even “imprisonment.” “But if you’re not angry, then why are you troubled about Rishka?”

The Councillor’s face went blank, and she was afraid he was about to reprimand her for her probing. But he only stared into space and said, “I fear he’s been silly, that’s all. Got himself into a situation he can’t handle. And I fear I egged him on.”

Before Einara could think of a follow-up question, Besha ran his thumb along her bottom lip and tugged her into a kiss. “But that’s nothing you’d understand,” he murmured against her neck. “Sweet, unspoiled savage girl. Stay innocent—it’s much safer that way.”

***

This time, Irin Dartán brought Einara a robe, a cup of tea, and a brush for her long hair, which the Councillor’s restless hands had left hopelessly tangled. “Sit,” he said, ushering her into a chair, and started stripping the bed. “What did he say?”

“Lots of things.” Einara sipped the tea, trying again to look artless and just slightly dim. _Stay innocent. _“Did you find out anything more about Harbour, Fir?”

Irin’s narrowed eyes met hers. “Did _you _find out anything from Councillor Linbeck?”

He was going to make her tell him first. Of course. He thought she was a foolish little Outer, easily manipulated.

Einara was itching to get under a shower, but she lifted the brush and drew it through her hair like she had all the time in the world. “The Councillor did have some things to say about this Rishka. I think he—” She searched for an inoffensive phrase. “He’s sweet on him.”

Irin whipped the bottom sheet off with a snap, lifted it aloft, and folded it. “You mean he likes fucking Rishka, same way he likes fucking you.”

“No.” She worked out a tangle with her fingers. “I don’t think it’s like that anymore. Fir Councillor says he’s ‘haunted’ by the boy.”

“Haunted? What the fuck does that mean?” Irin dropped a folded clean sheet on the bed and sat down facing her. “Don’t be coy.”

Einara met his gaze, knowing she was taking a risk. “I want to know about Harbour. You can’t make a bargain and not tell me anything,” she added, trying to sound petulant. The key was to keep him from taking her too seriously.

“Fine!” Irin rolled his eyes. “There are plans to establish an Oslov garrison in Bettevy, but that’s it. No ‘invasion’.”

“A _garrison_?” It was so ridiculous. If Oslov wanted to, it could own and occupy all of Bettevy and Resurgence tomorrow, and the rest of the continent into the bargain. Was it “strength of character” that held the rulers back from finishing what they’d started in Michigan? Or cowardice, or something she didn’t understand?

“What about the bombs?” she asked.

“Oslov doesn’t strike unilaterally.”

The casual denial wasn’t unexpected, but this time it broke over Einara like a wave, flooding her with an anger that swept away her caution. “You’re so naïve,” she snapped before she could stop herself. “The Upstarts tell you they never explode their bombs in other countries, and you believe them. Do you believe everything they tell you?”

Irin stared at her, but not with that snide look he’d had earlier. Now his face was dangerously blank, like the Councillor’s when she’d asked what troubled him. “Perhaps you know something I don’t?”

_Stupid idiot. _All she’d needed to do was control herself. She widened her eyes, trying for that ingenuous look again—and saw it wasn’t working. He didn’t relax or even blink.

“I do.” She bit her lip and let the genuine bitterness creep into her voice. “All right, so I didn’t say the whole truth. In my mother’s village, I had a friend who fled north from Harbour. She told me a bomb destroyed a whole state, and it could only be an Oslov bomb. She lost relatives there.”

Irin reacted with the slightest arch of the brows. “An interesting tale, but a rumor at best. Do you wish ill to Oslov, sweet girl?”

Einara shook her head. Dread and rage brought tears to her eyes, and she let them come. Emotion made her look weak, unthreatening; she needed that right now. “I used to,” she admitted in a near-whisper, lowering her head. “When I first came here, I was . . . angry. They didn’t always treat me well in the garrison.”

Irin folded his hands under his chin. “Soldiers aren’t known for their gentleness.”

“But then—but now . . .” She willed wetness to spill down her cheeks, but her eyes were already drying. Since spending her tears on her family’s deaths, she hadn’t been much of a crier. She put a whimper in her voice: “I like being here, Fir. I like being safe and warm.”

“I should hope so,” Irin said. “Oslov has taken you in and given you provisional citizenship, which can always be revoked.”

“I know.” She hung her head.

“Of course, being from the Outer territories, you may not realize that the allegation you’ve just made against the Republic is treasonous and extremely actionable. If I told any Upstarts about this conversation, you would end up in a cell under heavy interrogation. I’m guessing you weren’t aware of that, young and ignorant as you are.”

Einara shook her head with exaggerated vigor, hiding her face against her drawn-up knees. “I wasn’t, I swear, Fir! I only wanted to know, for my friend’s sake.”

“Your friend was lying,” Irin said in a flat, didactic way, like someone reading a script. “Whatever carnage she witnessed in Harbour was inflicted by Harbourers on Harbourers. If you think Oslov is an aggressive power, _you’re _the naïve one. Understood?”

“Yes, Fir. I understand.” Einara really ought to cry, but her mind was too busy working. She’d seen enough of Irin Dartán not to take him for the generous type. If he wasn’t turning her in, he had a reason—something he wanted to know, to hide, or both. And she was beginning to suspect he didn’t believe a single thing he said about Oslov’s pacifist virtues.

_There are Dissidents among the Laborers, _Artur Threindal had told her long ago, _but don’t get involved with them. They may seem to want what you want, but they’re still Oslovs. Their ultimate loyalty is to themselves._

She couldn’t trust Irin, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be useful. She just had to draw this out a little further, pretend to be his tool, and let him reveal his agenda to her, piece by piece.

Instead of begging for forgiveness, she drew herself up. “Fir Councillor told me something else about Rishka. Do you want to know what it was?”

Irin grinned rather nastily. “You’re in no position to dictate terms to me. Out with it.”

Einara told him the rest of what Besha had said in as much detail as she remembered. “He said Rishka’s got himself into something that he—the Councillor—is afraid Rishka can’t handle,” she finished. “Not only that, but ‘I fear I egged him on.’ That’s exactly what he said, Fir.”

The grin vanished. For the first time in the conversation, Irin looked almost dismayed, his brows drawn down hard. “Fir Linbeck didn’t say _what _he egged Rishka on to do?”

“No.”

“Or what was so hard to handle?”

Einara shook her head. “I can find out, Fir. Give me time. He likes talking to me.”

But Irin seemed to have lost interest in her. On his feet again, he finished making the bed with crisp, angry motions. “The next time you see Councillor Linbeck, you won’t mention the boy or any of this. Just do what you usually do.”

Would he turn her in after all? “But Fir, I—”

He silenced her with a gesture. “No questions. Act normal and await my instructions, Einara. Meanwhile, I can ask around about this bombing story of yours. I do have a friend in the office of the Ambassador.”

A shiver ran down Einara’s spine at the word “Ambassador.” That was something else that had been drilled into her: _The signal to act is the assassination of Oslov’s ambassador to Harbour. You’ll know he’s dead by the green scarf tied to one of the gate pillars outside the Sanctioned Brothel._

She said, “Maybe it’s not true, Fir. I was wrong to mention it, like you said.”

Irin had reminded her just how powerless she was. Even if Colonel Thibault could actually assassinate the Ambassador, who was going to tie a green scarf around the pillar? Back in Resurgence, they’d talked as if there were a whole network of secret operatives in Oslov, but Einara had never met a single one. For all she knew, she was the only person Artur had trained who’d ever made it to Redda.

And Artur himself had begged her to forget her training and “blend in.” _Save yourself. Marry an Oslov and have kids. You’re a smart girl, and that’s the smartest thing you can do._

Einara liked Artur and Moneta. She would have liked to stay with them in their rough dwelling and help with their daily tasks, perhaps for the rest of her miserable little life. But taking the easy way out would mean allowing the party responsible for what had happened to her family to die a natural death, even a _peaceful _death.

That would not happen. The certainty was a burning itch under her skin and a glowing beacon she saw in her dreams, always just out of reach. If she’d been put on earth for one thing, it was to cut a tiny, blazing hole in the world where her enemy had been. To let in the vacuum and the void.

And Irin was now offering to _help _her, which meant he too had some interest in learning more about the bombing. At the very least, he didn’t find the idea as absurd as he’d suggested earlier.

“I don’t want to commit treason,” she said, her tears rising obligingly again. “I’m not always happy. But I’m grateful. I am.”

“You’re rather a strange one, aren’t you, sweet girl?” Irin was surveying her with an intensity she didn’t like. “For now, as I say, continue as you are and await my instructions. And be aware that I’m not fooled by those wide eyes. If you’re indiscreet, or you disobey a single order I give you—” He snapped his fingers. “I think you’re smart enough to imagine the consequences.”

“Yes, Fir. I understand, Fir. Thank you, Fir.” She scrambled to her feet and bowed to him, aware she was being dismissed.

And all the time the secret words of power continued to resound in her head: _Be thou, spirit fierce, my spirit. Be thou me, impetuous one._


	17. Invisible Thread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Yuletide, everyone, and many thanks for reading and making wonderful, helpful, thought-provoking comments over the course of this year! You're all awesome. <3
> 
> Ceill is pronounced "kale"—yup, like the vegetable. I've started imagining Lisha and Albertine as Tilda Swinton and Helen Mirren, respectively, because if you're going to dream-cast, why not dream big? :)

Angelika Lindtmerán was mesmerized by her grandson’s eyes. Ocean blue, they observed her with a serious, contemplative expression, as if he were taking her measure, before slipping closed. She gazed down at the tiny bundle in her arms, pulsing with vibrant, independent life even at rest. She hadn’t expected him, hadn’t known he existed twenty-four hours ago, and now all she wanted in life was to watch his chest rise and fall.

“The eye color may change,” said Albertine Linnett, observing over Lisha’s shoulder. She spoke softly so as not to wake her daughter, who had succumbed to exhaustion after feeding the child.

_Ceill_. That was what Vera had announced she wanted to call him—Ceillian Vodion Linnett, after Tilrey’s father and the Saga hero, of all things. She’d said it with a defiant glance at her mother over her nursing child’s head. Lisha wondered if Fir’n Linnett would allow the choice to stick.

She checked the time—nearly sunset. It had been a long night and day. Until now, they’d been preoccupied with getting Vera through labor—mercifully uncomplicated—and notifying the father and getting the child fed and watching Vera gaze raptly into his eyes. They hadn’t had a free second to discuss the future.

Lisha and Fir’n Councillor had been getting along so well last night when Dal dashed into the greenhouse to fetch them both. She’d taken Lisha aside and whispered a message that made Lisha say out loud, “Is this a festival prank? Because it’s in bad taste.”

Dal had shaken her head grimly, murmuring, “She wants her mother there, too,” and Lisha’s world had lurched on its axis. _So that’s why Vera was asking me all those questions about Rishka. _Everything suddenly made more sense and less.

The urgency of biology simplified things for a while. When Lisha said, “Your daughter is in labor,” Fir’n Linnett followed her to the clinic without a word.

And when Vera turned to Lisha, resting between contractions, and said, “My mother already knows,” that had been a relief. Lisha didn’t enjoy being the last to know, but at least she had no secret to keep. Perhaps Fir’n Linnett had already had time to absorb the situation, to process her shock and outrage.

During the delivery, the Upstart hadn’t lashed out or issued a slew of commands; she’d been respectful and matter-of-fact with Lisha and the medical staff, if a little severe. She and Lisha had exchanged a single look that said _We talk later._

If she were going to start pulling rank, though, now was the time.

“He may have his father’s eyes, Fir’n,” Lisha said diplomatically, not mentioning that Ceill also resembled Tilrey in every other way one could discern at this stage. The spacing of the eyes, the full lips, the chin, the brows—maybe she was just being fond and foolish, but she was convinced he was the exact image of the infant she’d welcomed into the world thirty years ago.

“They are rather luminous,” Fir’n Linnett said.

Lisha tore herself away from the sleeping baby long enough to notice a dampness in the woman’s eyes, a softening of the proud features. Well! She was his grandmother too, after all. “Would you like to hold him?” Lisha asked, trying not to sound reluctant.

“Might I?”

The quaver in the Upstart’s voice told Lisha she was doing a kindness, though it physically hurt her to rise and hand the baby over to Albertine. “Sit, Fir’n,” she requested, ushering the woman into the chair she’d vacated. “Get comfortable with little Ceill.”

“Ceill, yes.” Albertine rocked the baby, supporting his tiny skull in her palm. “You’re right. I must say, he favors his father.”

_And what does that mean to her? What’s her next move? _It seemed unfair to press the issue just yet, so Lisha pulled up a second chair and sat watching them. The Upstart’s lips moved; she was reciting a nonsense rhyme, something about fat fir trees and squirrels, only snatches of it audible. The stern lines of her face relaxed, and for the first time, Lisha could imagine her as something other than a Councillor. A girl watching snow fly outside the window, a woman in love, a mother singing a child to sleep.

Still, she didn’t feel safe dropping the formality between them. “This is an unusual situation in which we find ourselves, Fir’n.”

“Yes.” Albertine looked up from examining Ceill’s tiny hand. “I knew, of course,” she said in a distracted way. “As Vera told you. Or rather, I guessed. That’s why I came. Vera and I worked out everything between us before the situation . . . became urgent. There’s no cause for concern.”

_She wants him. She’s going to take him away. _Lisha was suddenly sure of it, but she kept her voice neutral. “You worked things out, Fir’n?”

Albertine raised her eyes, hooded and hazel like Vera’s. “More or less. My daughter’s husband values his alliance to us. I believe he’ll be accommodating.”

“The husband doesn’t know yet?” This didn’t sound “worked out” at all.

“Well, not yet, no. There’s a question of how much to tell. I don’t want to lie to him, and neither does Vera. But I’m not sure it’s absolutely necessary to reveal the identity of the father.”

“So you would raise my grandson as an Upstart. Give him your family name.” Lisha knew she should be grateful—what an opportunity!—but she couldn’t seem to unclench her jaw. “Treat him as one of your own.”

“Yes.” The woman was scrutinizing Lisha now, clearly sensing reservations. “That’s my proposal, anyway.”

_She’s giving you a priceless gift. Accept it. _But it felt more like being deprived of the best gift she’d ever received; her arms already felt empty without Ceill’s weight. Retreating to the safety of questions, she asked, “Has my son agreed to this course of action?”

Some Upstarts might have taken offense to the inquiry; Fir’n Linnett only said, “Vera tells me he proposed it himself. She was the one who resisted. But when Tilrey arrives, of course, we can make sure we’re all in agreement.”

She said Tilrey’s name so easily, as if she knew him well—as if he were an employee or a member of her household. What did this stranger know or think she knew about Lisha’s son? Why wasn’t she more bothered by the blending of his genetic material and hers? If Lisha’s own parents had been troubled by her choice of a mate who didn’t belong to the governing class, how much more disturbed should Albertine Linnett be?

“And it doesn’t trouble you,” Lisha asked, trying to make the words light even though she felt queasy, “that the son may take after the father? Inside and outside?”

Albertine stroked Ceill’s fine blond hair where it escaped from under his woolly hat. “Should it trouble me?” she asked. “I don’t know your son well, but I’ve had occasion to work with him, and I’ve found him bright and trustworthy. I understand, of course, why we prohibit matches like this. Society must have order; strong bloodlines should be safeguarded. But a good bloodline can spring up anywhere, and society must have mobility, too.” She sighed. “And, to be honest, I’m not as surprised as I could be. When I was a little younger than Vera, I fell madly in love with a man who was considered an inappropriate match. His grandmother was born a Laborer.”

Lisha raised her brows—not at the “inappropriate match” but at the use of the word “love,” _ináthera_. “It didn’t work out, Fir’n?”

“Oh no, no.” Albertine’s voice was dreamy, as if her pride might not have permitted her to discuss this episode in her past without the baby distracting her. “It was never serious—well, not on Fredrich’s side, anyway. I was just a conquest for him, one of many. He’d already made an advantageous match with an older woman of my class whose family was pressuring her into producing an heir. They were desperate enough to accept Fredrich into their family; my mother would never have consented to that. She was very hidebound. And that was lucky for me,” she added briskly, raising her eyes to Lisha’s. “With one of us in love and the other one mainly interested in his own advancement, Fredrich and I would have been very unhappy.

Lisha bristled, not bothering to hide it, though she knew she might be jumping to conclusions. “Is that what you think of my son, Fir’n Linnett? That he’s mainly interested in his own advancement?”

Once again, Albertine shrugged off the provocation. “I didn’t mean to draw a comparison, Fir’n Lindtmerán. Frankly, I have no idea what motivates your son, and I’m happy to leave that between him and my daughter.”

“What motivates my son—” Lisha broke off as she realized she herself had no idea. Why would Tilrey sleep with the granddaughter of _that_ man? Why would he sleep with anyone but the man he loved?

“Vera can tell you more about what happened, if she wishes,” Albertine said with a glance at the bed. “So can Tilrey, when he arrives—I’m in no position to judge. My concern is what we do now.”

Lisha had to hand it to the woman. Every word she spoke was serene, gracious, and dignified, as if she were one of those benevolent high Upstarts on streaming dramas who step in to solve thorny problems for the Laborer protagonists.

But when she’d said, _I’m in no position to judge_, the slightest quiver in her voice had betrayed an underlying strain.

Was it possible Albertine felt guilty? Until now, Lisha had never given much thought to the Linnett family beyond Malsha, the man who still haunted her dreams. The most powerful person in the Republic had stolen her son and sent her elegantly phrased letters to take his place—letters that were a cruel parody of concern. He had filled her son with enough shame to drive them apart for years. But that was nothing for which his children or grandchildren could bear responsibility.

When she learned of Vera’s arrival, Lisha had noted the name with a small internal shudder. Why was a Linnett girl messing about here? She’d instructed Mal to get to the bottom of the reasons for Vera’s visit, using manipulation and even seduction if necessary. But her first sight of Vera, so flustered and self-conscious and vulnerable—and pregnant—had given her doubts. She hadn’t been prepared for a young Linnett who seemed genuinely interested in learning more about Thurskein. Against her better judgment, she’d let the girl’s apparent artlessness seduce her into something approaching intimacy.

Later, she might have words with Vera about that. But Lisha suspected the girl was no more capable of feeling guilt than her grandfather was, if for different reasons.

Albertine, though—she grasped the bitter irony of this situation. A certain dread hung heavy in her eyes as Lisha asked, “What about your daughter, Fir’n? You seem to be implying she’s ‘madly in love with’ Tilrey, as you were with this Fredrich. Do you have reason to think so?”

Albertine’s shoulders tightened. The baby’s mouth twisted, responding to her own tension, and she relaxed again.

“My daughter is a passionate young woman,” she said with another glance at the bed. “As I was. But she’s starting to grasp the realities of this situation.”

Lisha knew she should accept what the Councillor was proposing. Apparently Tilrey had—or, if Vera was telling the truth, he’d actually been the first to propose it. Could that be true? Her son had returned to her from Redda with a strain of resigned pragmatism that sometimes unsettled her.

He might not want to fight for himself, but she would fight for him. “If Vera is in love,” she said tightly, “she has a strange way of expressing it. She seems not to mind that her son will never know his real father.”

Albertine looked at Lisha over Ceill’s head, her eyes narrowing as she recognized the words for the direct attack they were. “This situation imposes some cruelties on all of us.”

Lisha didn’t drop her eyes. “Some cruelties are more necessary than others.”

“We won’t, of course, make any decisions until your son arrives. These are choices for him and Vera to make without interference.”

Albertine spoke so blandly, as if she hadn’t been interfering this whole time. As a politician herself, Lisha admired the woman’s skill.

But she was not going to apologize for interfering, even if Tilrey was furious at her. He’d never expressed any particular desire for children, but a glance at the blue-eyed infant, slumbering peacefully in the Councillor’s arms, told Lisha where _she_ stood.

An invisible thread connected her to that tiny image of her son, who in turn had been a tiny image of his own father. She could still feel him in her arms, and she had no intention of letting him go. Temporarily, of course, because he needed his mother most right now. But not for good. That would happen over her dead body.

She rose from her chair, held out her arms, and cocked her head in a way that was neither respectful nor deferent. _Give him here._

And Albertine stood, careful not to wake the baby, and handed Ceill over to Lisha with a last longing glance.

“I think he’ll break hearts,” she said.

“I imagine.” Lisha gazed down at the child’s closed eyes, the lashes already long and thick like his father’s. She said, “I lost my heart to my son the instant he was born. You understand that. You’re a mother—but you had a husband and perhaps other children. Tilrey and I were alone in the world. I kept him at home with me as much as I could, even brought him to work with me in the early days. When he was older, he was a companion, a conversation partner. But I never forgot I was also his mother. I would have _died _to keep him safe. Or so I thought.”

She raised her eyes and locked them on the Upstart’s. “Then someone came and took him from me. And I realized my dying would be beside the point. As long as your father was the General Magistrate, I was helpless. Even after that, as it turned out.”

A visible shudder passed over Albertine, but she didn’t speak.

“Short of bringing down the entire Republic” —Lisha shrugged to convey the absurdity of it— “I could not do a thing for my son, Fir’n Linnett. Not a thing. And I knew he was suffering, because I know him. Can you imagine how that feels?”

Tears rolled down Albertine’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, Fir’n Lindtmerán. I could have—well, there are things I could have done. Ways I might have helped. I chose to look the other way.”

So the woman did comprehend guilt. Cradling her grandson, Lisha kept her eyes steady and drove her point home. “I don’t blame you for your father’s actions, Fir’n, or for the degree of power he wielded. It’s not for me to question the way you people choose to govern us—and I say that with _great respect_.” This time she didn’t veil her contempt. “All I know is that your family stole my son from me. And I don’t intend to let it steal my grandson.”

***

Slowly emerging from a much-needed sleep, Vera heard voices but didn’t try to distinguish words. Her mother and someone else—Lisha? Yes, she thought so. They’d both been here the entire time, her mother holding her hand during the birth, as it should be.

She didn’t know how long she’d floated in foggy grayness. Sometimes, in her half dreams, she wandered through the snow maze again, but she was no longer lost. _He _was close by, connected to her by an unbreakable thread, and he was marvelous, more beautiful than any baby who had ever lived before. He was not a misbirth—she would never use that foul word again. He was _hers_.

The voices above her sharpened. Someone was angry. Accusing. She came fully awake with a jerk and sat up, blinking into the harsh lighting of the Laborer clinic. “What’s going on? Why are you fighting?”

Without thinking, she held out her arms. Lisha bent and placed Ceill in them. The woman looked a little sheepish, as if she’d done something wrong, but Vera couldn’t focus on her. Ceill’s eyes were open. He was starting to fret; she rocked him, feeling milk rush to her breasts.

“No one’s fighting, love,” her mother said behind Lisha, sounding a little strained. “Fir’n Lindtmerán and I were simply going over the discussion we’ll have with Tilrey when he arrives.”

“Oh?” Vera opened her robe and let the baby latch on to a nipple. “Because you sounded angry.”

The words she’d heard in her drowsy state came into sharp, conscious focus. That soft Thurskein burr—Lisha. _Your family stole my son from me. And I don’t intend to let it steal my grandson_.

Vera drew in her breath, trying not to stiffen all over, because Ceill could feel that. He was sensitive to every microscopic change in his environment—she could already tell.

She released the breath, long and slow, and raised her eyes to her mother, who stood with arms crossed at the foot of the bed. “I don’t think you should be planning anything without asking my opinion.”

“That’s not what we were doing. I was simply conveying to Fir’n Lindtmerán the agreement you and I had already reached.”

Bone tired, Vera had no patience right now for her mother’s logic. Certain things had to be made clear. She shifted her gaze to Lisha, whose face suggested a prisoner waiting for a sentence.

Did she really have so little trust in Vera, after the way they’d talked? But then, Vera admitted to herself, she hadn’t exactly been forthcoming in those conversations. She’d sucked up Lisha’s stories about Tilrey and his father and offered little in return.

Fixing the woman’s eyes with her own, she said, “No one’s going to steal your grandson. He’ll live with me, of course, but he’ll know you—and his father, if his father _wants _to know him. But you will know your grandson, and you will see him regularly, and he will be part of your family.” She returned her eyes to her mother. “I won’t accept anything else.”

“Vera.” There was a world of weariness in Albertine’s face. “You do realize . . .” She closed her mouth, leaving a swarm of unspoken objections to cloud the air around them.

“I do indeed realize. But that’s not negotiable.” Vera relaxed against the pillow, palming her son’s tiny skull. “Now, please let us rest.”


	18. Too Alike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year/new decade! And thank you for reading. <3

Gersha slept through the landing of the small military transport plane that Sergeant Aurinthal had commandeered for their use. The pitching and rolling didn’t even make him twitch, his head pillowed on Tilrey’s shoulder. Tilrey was exhausted, too, but he couldn’t rest yet, too busy debriefing himself after their “mission.”

Sergeant Aurinthal must be on good business terms with Artur, because she’d been noticeably more friendly and cooperative on their return from the mountains than she had on their initial meeting. When she’d insisted they take the transport to shorten their journey to Thurskein, Tilrey had agreed, though he would have appreciated more time to clear a space in his head to deal with this new problem.

Maybe _problem _wasn’t the right word. Situation, then.

“Wake up, love,” he said, nudging Gersha’s head from his shoulder as the plane taxied toward the terminal. “We’re here.”

Gersha mumbled something unintelligible, then sat up with his mouth twisted in alarm. “My clothes! They’re all wrong. I need to be myself here.”

“Don’t fret.” Tilrey patted his husband’s knee and reached over to undo his seatbelt. “I brought one of your R-11 tunics in my duffel, just in case. And it’s after midnight, so no one’s likely to spot you before you change.”

They were both wearing the stiff, sweat-stained outdoor clothes in which they’d hiked down the mountain from Weigand, after an emotional farewell. Moneta had embraced them both warmly and issued dire warnings about avoiding frostbite, and the children clung to Gersha until he promised to come back someday.

Tilrey and Artur had merely locked eyes and clasped hands. Artur’s eyes asked, _Will you use what I’ve told you responsibly? _And Tilrey’s eyes promised he would.

Now it was up to him to decide what that meant. So far, he and Gersha hadn’t even discussed the outcome of his mission for the True Hearth, being preoccupied with the trek and the weather and worries about their current destination. Tilrey wondered if Gersha would start asking questions once they got settled in Thurskein—or whether, on some level, Gersha wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

It might be for the best if he didn’t. Whatever his current allegiance, Gersha was still an Oslov patriot and a programmer. The very notion of a threat to the security of Oslov’s automated climate-control systems would send him into a tizzy of conflicted loyalties. And what if that threat turned out to be a mirage?

_It could be a myth_, Artur had said. _Supposedly the Colonel heard it from an Upstart her family held hostage almost a century ago—Edvard Linnett. He told them Whyberg built his own backdoor into the system, keying it to Harbourer poetry. The idea was to be able to take Redda offline remotely if enemies ever captured the city. But to access that failsafe—if it even exists—you’d need five people at five farflung points in a system whose layout is highly classified, not to mention underground. It’s a fucking maze._

_And, _Artur had finished with a note of triumph in his voice, _I don’t even know the verses that are supposed to serve as passwords. Only those poor brainwashed kids were trusted with them._

A myth. A tall tale related by a Dissident Linnett to his Resurgent captors. A mere possibility. But Irin Dartán, Tilrey suspected, would still be very interested in any possible vulnerabilities in the systems that kept Oslov running.

Gersha, though—maybe it was best that Gersha not know. Maybe Tilrey could say Artur had sworn him to secrecy.

Taking his husband’s arm to guide him down the steep steps to the tarmac, he told himself a small, temporary lie might be permissible between them. It wouldn’t be like before, when he had kept his whole secret life from Gersha.

Anyway, until they found one of these Resurgent sleeper agents, the information was as useless as it was dangerous. The fewer people who knew, the better. Artur had told Tilrey to be a leader, to use the secret like a leader. Was this what that meant?

The ferocious wind made them cling to each other. The storm had ended at last, and stars blazed in the black dome of the sky as they followed the lights to the terminal. “Almost there, sweetheart,” Tilrey said, assauging his own misgivings with a tender arm around Gersha’s waist. “Soon you can sleep again.”

His plan was to sneak into their usual guest suite, where Gersha could rest while Tilrey went to confer with his mother and Vera. And to see the baby, he supposed, his mind not ready to go down that path.

He underestimated Lisha’s powers of organization. Inside the terminal, a bleary-eyed Mal waited for them by the lift.

“Welcome back, Fir Councillor,” the young man said, bobbing his head to Gersha. “Always a pleasure to see you in Sector Six. I’ll escort you to your accommodations.” When he turned to Tilrey, a grin spread on his face. “Congratulations.”

“For what?” And then it came to him why the boy was grinning so cockily. “You fucking _know_?” Tilrey must be more tired than he realized; he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. But what was Vera thinking?

Mal looked guilty as he glanced between them, clearly reassuring himself that Gersha was also in the know. “Things happened so fast. There was some . . . blurting.”

_Great. _“Who else knows, anyway?” Tilrey muttered, hoisting a bag over his shoulder and passing the other one to Mal.

“Only the ones who need to. I’ve got instructions to bring you straight to your mother’s apartment after you and the Fir get settled. She—well, uh, she has a few things she wants to say to you.”

Mal’s pained expression told Tilrey they weren’t things he’d particularly want to hear. Tilrey didn’t voice his follow-up questions as they rode the lift to the top level, but he couldn’t stop them from bubbling up to consciousness.

Had Vera come to Thurskein to throw herself on his mother’s mercy and use her against him? Had she somehow intuited that what Lisha wanted most was a grandchild? He hated to think of Vera telling a one-sided version of how this had happened, largely because he knew even the most rigorously honest version wouldn’t flatter him in Lisha’s eyes.

The suite to which Mal led them was more modest than usual, though Tilrey could have sworn Sector Six had two suites designed specifically for Upstarts. Mal waited outside while they both peeled off their filthy clothes and showered.

But when Gersha tried to put on his tunic, Tilrey stopped him. “You can crash. I think Mom only wants to see me right now.”

“But I’m involved in this,” Gersha protested weakly, his eyes clouded with fatigue. “You’re my husband.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Tilrey wrapped him in a robe and eased him down on the bed. _I love you and my mom, but I can’t deal with you both at once. Not now._

“If Lisha’s not happy with how you’ve handled this, I bear some responsibility,” Gersha said. “She can’t just hear Vera’s side of the—”

“I _know_, love.” Tilrey pressed a kiss to his forehead. “But believe me, I can handle my own mother.”

A few minutes later, following Mal down the corridor, he wondered if that were true.

The young man paused at the door of Lisha’s suite, where he rang a buzzer, waited for a silent response, and ushered Tilrey inside. “Good luck,” he said as he made a speedy exit down the corridor.

Lisha was pacing her living room. When she faced Tilrey, he saw the dark shadows under her eyes. Unwashed tea tumblers littered the room’s every flat surface.

Tilrey moved reflexively to pick one up, but she stopped him with a gesture. “No. You aren’t going to get out of this by playing the good servant. Come here and face me.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her sound this way. Maybe when he was fourteen and bombed his hands-on generator-repair test because he’d panicked and all the parts looked the same.

No longer fourteen, he faced his mother with arms crossed, eyes steady. “I’ve had a full day, Mom. And maybe _I’m _owed a few explanations.”

“You certainly are.” She didn’t blink. “And you’ll have them. First, though, I need a few of my own. The mother of your son tells me she’s not sure you want to ‘know’ your child, or even see him.”

Well, this was going well. Tilrey broke the gaze and scrubbed both hands over his face.

“Is that true?” Lisha persisted.

“Mom, I’m not _ready _for this.”

“No one ever is, Rishka.” Her voice was closer, gentler. “I’m sorry if this feels like an attack. I realize there are two sides to every story. But—”

Tilrey threw himself down on the couch, giving up any pretense of impartial rationality. He’d kept up the façade with Gersha, more or less, but now he just didn’t have it in him. “So I was right. Vera came here to work on your sympathies. Did she happen to tell you how her child was conceived? How I had no choice in the matter? How—”

“Fir’n Linnett hinted at that, yes. She told me enough so I could figure the rest out. And I can see for myself she’s an eccentric and volatile girl who yielded to a foolish impulse of passion.” His mother’s voice was sharpening again, her pupils large with conviction. “But all that is beside the point, Tilrey. The child she just brought into the world isn’t solely _her_ child. She named him Ceill for your father, may his last moment be bright. Are you really telling me you don’t want to meet him? To hold him?”

All Tilrey wanted to do right now was sleep. Whatever magnetic pull he was supposed to feel toward his offspring was not there, or not yet. But he could see now that Lisha was vibrating not with anger or disappointment at him, but with anticipation and need and fear of his reaction, and that was a relief.

“Of course I want to see him,” he said. “You aren’t pissed at me, then? For getting myself in this mess?”

Lisha seemed not to understand the words. She was bustling about, grabbing a shawl and pulling it over her jerkin. “What _mess_? Your son is perfect. You don’t expect me to react like some wretched Reddan, do you? No one will _ever _call him a misbirth in my earshot. Anyway, you wait there; I’ll bring him in. He’s napping. Don’t worry, you don’t have to see Vera just yet. She said I could bring Ceill to meet you, just the three of us to start.”

Tilrey scowled before he could stop himself. “How did she even know my dad’s name? Are you two best friends now or something?”

His mother beamed back at him, all traces of scolding vanished. “Well, I went through the birth with her. We know each other a bit.”

***

The baby had his eyes. His chin. His mouth. His ears. His everything.

Lisha didn’t say it—she didn’t need to. Gazing down at the tiny human being in her arms, Tilrey had an unsettling feeling of looking back through time. His mother must have looked holding him the way she did now—stern and proud, but with an irrepressible smile tugging at the corner of her lips. And he must have looked to her the way Ceill did, surveying the world with those enormous, serious blue eyes.

Already he could see through the infant’s surface serenity to the potential seething beneath. Even in sleep, those tiny nostrils were sampling the air. Those tiny ears were alert for signs of danger. Those tiny fingers wanted something to grasp. He imagined the sensitive nerve endings pulsing beneath the thin skin, all the needs that would someday weave themselves into fears and more elaborate insecurities and neuroses.

With every fiber of his being, he promised, _I will protect you_, wondering if his mother had made the same promise to him, long ago.

“Would you like to hold him now?”

Tilrey honestly wasn’t sure. Pressure was pushing at his eyes, making his vision swim. He nodded, barely, and Lisha transferred Ceill to his arms, saying, “There you go, sweetheart, there you go.”

The infant’s warm weight was nothing, but something tightened in Tilrey’s chest like a fist clenching. He trembled under the force of his own fierce determination to shield Ceill from the threats of which he was painfully conscious, all around them.

Lisha had no concept of the sheer degree and number of those threats. She had no idea.

_So you are capable of loving him_, Malsha’s voice said in his head, amused. _Now we’re linked by blood._

Tilrey tore his eyes from Ceill, blinking the tears away. He would not allow himself to think that way. That triumphant voice (_The irony!_) was only his own twisted, broken mind. Malsha did not know about this and never would.

_You’re so beautiful, _the old man had told him once. _I wish I could know you at every age of your life, see you in every stage of your beauty._

Tilrey said, “I wish he didn’t look like me.”

Lisha didn’t look up at him, still rapt in the study of Ceill’s face. “No false modesty.”

“I’m not being modest.” The child’s eyes had closed; it was almost a relief. “Maybe his eyes will darken to hazel, like Vera’s. His hair could redden, too.”

“That’s really what you want?”

_I wish he looked like a Linnett. So much safer. _Tilrey tried to visualize a child who combined his features with Vera’s coloring. Would the combination suffice to fool Tollsha—or anyone? As long as Tilrey remained Gersha’s secretary, his face would be familiar to a certain stratum of Upstarts. But then, his appearance wasn’t distinctive, or so he’d always insisted over Gersha’s objections. Conventionally attractive, yes, but with an emphasis on the _conventional_.

Maybe that would save Ceill. He would be desirable and desired, yes, but the Linnett name would shield him, and his brand of attractiveness would be generic enough not to ring any bells. Tollsha had blond hair and blue eyes and had been a looker in his youth. Maybe—if Vera decided to be sensible—the boy could pass for Tollsha’s son. Maybe Ceill could even grow up into an insufferable little entitled Strutter, someone who broke all the hearts of his peers.

_A real Linnett heir. Is that what I want him to be?_

It was, he told himself. But, looking down at Ceill, he could already tell this child didn’t have Tollsha’s brash confidence. He was shy and high-strung—like Vera, like Tilrey himself when he wasn’t feigning a languid, seductive confidence or playing some other role. _Green help him._

_Maybe I’m projecting. He could grow up completely unlike me._

Ceill began to fidget, his hands opening and closing on air. Tilrey placed a finger in his palm, dwarfing it. The tiny fingers latched on.

_No, he’s mine. Green help us both, he’s mine._

“You don’t need to fret about his looks, Rishka.” His mother spoke soothingly, as much for his benefit as for Ceill’s. “Vera and I have had a good long talk. She’ll tell her husband everything. Assuming he agrees—”

“He won’t agree!” Was Vera out of her mind? Were they both?

Ceill’s eyes popped open, and he emitted a thin, tentative wail. Tilrey transferred him to Lisha’s outstretched arms, realizing guiltily how loud his voice had been. “He won’t,” he repeated in a murmur as Lisha rocked the child, cooing under her breath. “I know Tollsha. He knew about us. He was jealous.”

“That’s no surprise, as his wife is passionately in love with you.” Lisha made a clucking noise that served to reprimand her son and calm her grandson at the same time. “Vera’s been less than forthcoming with me till recently, but I know that much. I imagine she’ll get over it,” she added thoughtfully, eyes on Ceill. “It’s not like you’ve given her much encouragement besides, well, sleeping with her.”

“There were reasons,” Tilrey said. “And she—”

“I know what she did, or neglected to do. Believe me, I know the whole story. Perhaps you’ll think twice next time you’re tempted to toy with a volatile person’s affections.” She quelled his objection with a look. “But that’s water under the bridge. The important thing right now is handling Tollsha. And Albertine disagrees with you on that score. She thinks he’ll do whatever he must to avoid a scandal.”

“Maybe, but—” Tilrey stopped as his brain caught up with his mouth. “Did you say _Albertine_? Albertine Linnett?”

“Of course.” His mother gestured to the door behind her. “She’s in there with her daughter, and she’s a perfectly reasonable person once you get past all the formalities and such. The two of us have been putting our heads together and making plans while you were gallivanting around the Wastes. Shall we go in now?”


	19. The Whole Picture

“This is ridiculous,” Vera said. She’d curled up in the armchair beside the bed, her face waxy and her flame-colored curls in disarray. “I don’t want to see Tilrey, and he doesn’t want to see me.”

Albertine placed a warning hand on her daughter’s shoulder. The girl could be dangerously quick-tempered when things didn’t go her way. It seemed to be the main thing she’d inherited from her father. “Don’t assume the worst.”

“I’m not assuming anything. He doesn’t want to be a part of this.”

_ But his mother is already a part of this, and you supported that—nay, you demanded it. And of course she wants him involved, too. _If Vera was ever going to succeed in politics, she needed to learn to step back and observe dispassionately how causes led to effects, including unintended ones.

Albertine had learned for herself that you didn’t need to be a persuasive orator or a charismatic influencer to succeed in the Council. Sometimes it was enough to notice the connections others missed. It was one of the few useful things her father had taught her, back in the days when he was content to play a low-key, supportive role in his party. _Use your eyes and ears. While everyone else is fixated on their petty little wants, you can see the whole picture they’re part of._

Albertine had gotten a long way in politics by being coolly observant and nonjudgmental. This situation, emotionally charged as it was, was no different. And so she set her personal pride to one side and said patiently, “We need to do what’s best for Ceill. You know that.”

“What’s best for him right at this second is to be with me, and not—”

Vera broke off as the door swung open. Lisha entered first, cradling the baby in her arms. Tilrey followed, looking uncharacteristically ungroomed—unshaven, even—and a bit sheepish.

Vera’s eyes skittered over him as she reached out her arms for Ceill. Lisha relinquished him to her, and Vera tucked the baby close to her body, her face relaxing as she drank him in again. “Hello, Tilrey,” she said tonelessly

“Hello, Fir’n.” Tilrey turned to face Albertine, his posture as rigid as if he were in the Sector. “What an honor to see you here, Fir’n Councillor,” he said, extending his hand palm down. “I apologize for not being more presentable.”

Was he actually blushing? Albertine clasped his hand and released it. “Please. Let’s not be formal. It seems we’re all family now.”

His color only deepened. “So you’ve met my mother, then, Fir’n.”

“Oh, we’ve more than met.” Albertine winked at Lisha. “We’re practically old friends.”

Tilrey turned to his mother, his jaw tightening, and Albertine realized that it was her own presence in particular that made him uncomfortable. Over his years in Redda, he’d clearly developed that exaggerated deference to Upstarts that was both a shield and a crutch. It was easy for her to tell him to drop the formality, but he gave it as automatically as she received it. Without it, he must feel naked.

Albertine felt a bit naked here, too. She’d been raised by her mother and aunts, who would have had any Laborer who spoke to them too informally summarily removed from their post. They believed the key to life was rigid order and subordination: _When one piece falls out of alignment, the whole machine breaks._

Then she’d come here and met Lisha, with her respectful but blunt simplicity. It was a shock, but also refreshing—so refreshing, in fact, that Albertine hadn’t had the heart to pull rank, even when Lisha started really speaking her mind.

It wasn’t like she’d said anything that wasn’t true, when you looked at the case as a neutral observer. Her son _had _been stolen from her.

But Tilrey must be dreading the fallout of his mother’s frankness. Hoping to reassure him, Albertine sat down on the bed—could anything be less dignified?—and motioned Lisha to sit beside her. “Tilrey, I know it seems odd to see me here, in a nonofficial capacity. But Vera and I have spoken openly to your mother, and she’s been open with us. I know this situation wasn’t of your making.”

Tilrey shifted his gaze from her to his mother and back, arms stiff by his sides. “I’d hoped, Fir’n, never to bring you into this at all.”

“She guessed,” Vera said ruefully. “And then she abused her power and rooted out the proof. Would you please stop calling her ‘Fir’n’ like you’re in the Sector? She said not to, and we all know it’s an act.” She shot a glance at Albertine. “I don’t mean he’s dishonest, just that he’s not as humble as he pretends. Not that he _should_ be humble,” she added, her cheeks reddening as she finally met Tilrey’s eyes. “That’s not what I mean at all.”

Tilrey looked miserable again, so Albertine took control. “We aren’t here to discuss Tilrey’s humility or my nosiness, darling. We’re here to make sure we’re all on the same page, and then to discuss our next steps.” She glanced at Lisha. “May I?”

Lisha looked quizzical, perhaps disturbed by Tilrey’s performance of deference, but she nodded. “Lead on.”

Albertine faced Tilrey. “Vera would like to raise Ceill with her husband in Redda. She would also like to maintain your son’s relationship with your mother—and, if you like, with you. How does that sit with you?”

Tilrey blinked hard as if she’d slapped him, but his expression didn’t change. After a moment, he said, “That’s agreeable to me. But I question whether it’s feasible.”

“Because?”

For the first time, he looked directly at Albertine, those blue eyes reserved but not hostile. “Well, first of all, that would mean visits to Thurskein of some regularity. Even if they were only annual, Vera would need a reason.”

Albertine nodded, appreciating how similarly their minds worked. “The Admin of this sector is approaching retirement, and Vera already has a foothold in the Bureau of Labor. I think it would be easy enough to appoint her his successor, giving her a pretext to spend as much time in Sector Six as she wishes.”

Tilrey didn’t look surprised. Clearly he was aware how much power a high-named Councillor could wield. “It would be kind of you to arrange that. It would mean a great deal to my mother.”

Lisha opened her mouth to speak, downright frowning now, but her son stopped her with a glance. “My real concern, though, is Fir Linden. Tollsha. My mother tells me you think he would accept this arrangement with open eyes.”

And now they were at the heart of the matter. Albertine shot a pointed glance at her daughter. _Your cue._

“That’s my responsibility.” Vera spoke in a distant voice, her eyes on Ceill. “I chose to marry Tollsha. If I have to beg him on my knees to be my son’s father, that’s what I’ll do. For Ceill’s future, not for honor or any other reason,” she added with a stern glance at Albertine, as if her mother had suggested otherwise.

_Which I did not. At all. _But there was no point in saying so. Albertine _had _been guilty in the past of lecturing Vera about honor and duty, using the same sterile phrases her own mother had used on her. She was older and wiser now, old enough to have seen how empty most people’s notion of honor was, but clearly Vera had learned the lesson.

Tilrey still looked skeptical. “Forgive me,” he said, addressing Vera. “I know how much it means to you not to deceive your husband, but—” his eyes moved to Albertine— “do you honestly think his pride would allow him to accept this? With all due respect, Fir’n Councillor—I know Tollsha.”

The meaningful way he said those three words put unwelcome images in Albertine’s head. The boy had “belonged” to Tollsha’s uncle, the then-General Magistrate. She had sometimes seen him at the Lounge with Tollsha as a chaperone, tasked with handing Tilrey over to the men who were currently enjoying his favors.

“I also know Tollsha,” she said as casually as she could. “Perhaps I know a different side of him than you do. I knew his late father. Quite well.”

“What does his father have to do with this?” Vera asked.

_Nothing. And everything. _Albertine knew she might be waxing sentimental when she drew a connection between Vera’s situation and her own. But she couldn’t help it. Both of them had fallen so hard for men they’d been taught to see as their inferiors that there had to be a hereditary tendency there.

“Tollsha’s paternal great-grandmother was born a Laborer,” she said.

It was funny how differently they reacted. Vera looked outraged and then as if she’d found excrement in her food. Tilrey seemed stunned, disbelieving. As for Lisha, she shrugged. The Linden name clearly meant nothing to her.

“It’s not a secret,” Albertine said, “just something the Linden family doesn’t advertise. Tollsha’s second cousins are still Laborers, and he socializes with them occasionally, from what I gather. Adeled—his mother—used to tell me it kept her children grounded to know their Laborer kin.”

Vera asked, “You couldn’t have told me that before I married the man?”

“His mother and I agreed it wasn’t relevant.”

“It’s not that I think less of him!” Vera stole a glance at Lisha, as if apologizing for the implication. “It’s just, I feel like I don’t know him. But I’m not sure how this makes a difference. Tollsha’s _obnoxiously_ proud of his name. Having Laborers in his bloodline probably just makes him feel like he has to overcompensate.”

Tilrey was nodding. “Pride comes from more than lineage, Fir’n. Upstarts can have close relationships with Laborers while maintaining rigid boundaries.”

He would know better than anyone, Albertine supposed, but she wanted to believe in her son-in-law. Maybe she was being sentimental in her assessment of Tollsha, but she’d often dealt with the boy in the days when he was doing errands for his semi-invalid uncle. He had some annoying mannerisms and a lot of surface pride, but down deep he reminded her of Fredrich—his father. He had a good heart. That was why she’d been so convinced—foolishly, she supposed—that he was right for her daughter.

“I was hoping not to tell Tollsha whose son Ceill is,” she admitted. “I thought ignorance might be easier on him. But Vera’s wish for Ceill to spend time in Thurskein forces honesty on us.”

“Tollsha would have guessed anyway,” Vera said grimly. Albertine caught a glance flashing between her and Tilrey. “He knew enough, and—well, just look at Ceill.”

“He might pass as Tollsha’s,” Tilrey objected. But Vera shook her head.

“Now, Tollsha hasn’t exactly chained himself to the marital bed, either, has he?” Although they’d never discussed it openly, Albertine knew this came as no surprise to Vera. Tollsha made no secret of his girlfriends, though he’d tactfully refrained from bringing them to public spots frequented by Upstarts during his wife’s pregnancy. “Once he gets over his shock, he’ll understand that accidents happen. And perhaps, sometimes, it’s best to treat them as happy accidents.”

None of them looked entirely convinced. “I don’t want him growing up thinking he’s an ‘accident,’” Vera murmured, rocking her son. “Happy or not. I want him to feel wanted.”

“There I agree,” Lisha said.

Tilrey sighed. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t try to persuade Fir Linden. I’m not saying he’s not reasonable, in the abstract. I’m just saying . . . well, I wish we could find a way to convince him it was anyone _other_ than me.”

***

Tollsha Linden stood motionless on the transport platform for a long moment, gazing at the glare of floodlights on snow. Behind him and to either side loomed the bulk of Thurskein, vast and unbounded in the dark. Unknown territory.

“They’re about to close up, Fir,” said one of the workers who’d been unloading the supply transport, dragging a dolly past him. “Best go in now, unless you want to use the warehouse entrance.”

Even on the slow, lumbering ground vehicle, it had taken only an hour to get here from the vacation complex in the Southern Range. Apparently Upstarts rarely traveled this route, though, because Tollsha’s companions in the passenger compartment—Skeinshaka who helped maintain Upstarts’ vacation homes—had been giving him curious glances the whole way.

As Tollsha stepped toward the massive doors, he wondered idly what he’d say if anyone dared ask what he was doing here.

_My wife’s been in Thurskein for days for some weird reason, and she’s very pregnant and she’s ignoring my messages, and her mother’s disappeared and her father’s being evasive about the whole thing and there was a storm and I’m getting cabin fever and I just know something’s wrong. I know it._

Vera’s dad had said her trip was work-related and hand-waved the details. But when Tollsha called the Bureau of Labor to ask why they’d sent his wife into the middle of nowhere so close to her due date (and maybe to berate them a little, if it made him feel better), Vera’s superior claimed the trip was entirely her own idea.

Something awful could be happening right now in that hulking city—to Tollsha’s wife, to his child. And the Linnetts were closing ranks and refusing to tell him anything, just like they always did. They’d pretended to welcome him into the family, especially Albertine. But when push came to shove, they were a bunch of inbred prigs who were all too well aware that his own lineage was not so pure.

Not that they were allowed to _say_ it. No one was allowed to say it, because Whyberg had nattered on about rotation and mobility and the evils of hereditary power transfer. But that didn’t stop people like the Linnetts from clinging to their power as tightly as they could—well, at least until a girl like Vera suddenly decided to slum it with a kettle boy.

Tollsha’s head was hot and tight as he stepped into the city, and he had to calm his breathing. He’d come out of legitimate concern, he reminded himself. He’d come to help. He was absolutely _not _here because he suspected his wife couldn’t get over Tilrey Bronn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so if you remember "A Serviceable Boy" really, really well (because this was only mentioned once there), you now know that Tilrey has slept with both Tollsha's wife AND Tollsha's mother, Adeled. It was years ago and not his choice and isn't going to factor into the story, but I just had to mention it because I love my soapy entanglements and Redda rivals Peyton Place in that respect! :D


	20. Blood Will Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter opens with a flashback that has mentions/aftermath of physical abuse and some dub-con.
> 
> Also, warning for an unlikable POV throughout this chapter! I just read a very long book with an unreliable narrator who is basically an entitled dudebro but thinks he's a good guy, and while it was frustrating at times, it helped me get inside Tollsha. :)

_Eight years ago_

“Have you tried putting makeup on it?” Tollsha Linden asked. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he winced at how callous they sounded.

The kettle boy didn’t take offense. He never seemed to, at anything. “I slathered stuff on, Fir. It shows through.”

They were talking about a massive fucking black eye and a split lip, both a few days healed but still impossible to miss on the boy’s pale skin. In every other respect, the boy was dressed and groomed as impeccably as always—so impeccably that he made Tollsha feel like a slob. But his face looked like it had been through a nasty bar fight.

If only it had. That would be easier to explain.

The last time Uncle had told Tollsha to take the boy to the Lounge, there’d been a bruise on the boy’s cheek that was relatively subtle, easy to miss in dim lighting. Tollsha had fretted about it, while the boy just shrugged with that annoying stoic expression, but everything worked out in the end. Councillor Lindahl took Uncle’s offering home with no objections.

This was different.

Tollsha flopped down on the couch in his uncle’s living room, feeling defeated. “You can’t go tonight,” he said, pulling out his handheld. “I’m gonna tell Verán that you’re . . . indisposed.”

The boy sat, too, but with grace and dignity, folding his hands on his knee. Every movement he made was elegant and probably calculated to be that way. Tollsha wondered if that was why Uncle hit the boy—because he was so irritatingly perfect, more like an Upstart than a real Upstart.

Not that Tollsha considered perfection a good reason to hit someone. But Uncle was getting old, and the stroke had reduced the mobility of his already-ungainly bulk. What was painful for Tollsha to witness must be even more painful for Uncle to live. Since he’d gotten some of his strength back, the old man had become short-fused and uncivil; he barked orders at Tollsha and even at his colleagues, treating them all with equal disdain. So it was no real surprise that he beat the kettle boy, someone on whom he could take out his frustrations with impunity.

No surprise, but an embarrassment to the whole family. Would Uncle have done that before the stroke? Tollsha hoped not.

He messaged his excuse to the Island Party’s majority leader, too mortified to make voice contact. _I’m here with Nettsha. Unfortunately, he seems indisposed tonight._

The reply came immediately: _We need to lock in Saldegren for tomorrow’s vote. How sick is he?_

Fucking Verán. While not as difficult as Uncle these days, the majority leader was almost as imperious with Tollsha as he was with the poor boy.

Tollsha exchanged a furtive glance with his companion—what was his real name again? Tollsha had made a point of asking because he didn’t like to call the boy “Nettsha” the way the others did, nicknaming him after the exiled Magistrate. He didn’t believe in treating Drudges like extensions of the Upstarts who had charge of them. He wasn’t _like _that.

When he was twelve, Tollsha had overheard Uncle describing Tollsha’s father as a “nice little ornament to the family.” He would never forget it—the dismissive, cloying tone. The only person he’d ever told about the shameful moment was his cousin Sibylla, who laughed and said, “If that bugs you, be glad you’re a Linden, because you couldn’t last a day being me.”

In her good-natured way, Sibylla was always mocking Tollsha’s efforts to be sensitive and considerate toward his inferiors. And she had a point. A lot of good all that sensitivity did Tollsha, because Uncle’s kettle boy still hated his guts.

_He’s puking a lot, actually_, Tollsha typed into the message field.

Before he could send it, the boy said, “He knows, Fir.”

Tollsha froze. “Knows what?”

“There was an . . . accident last spring, before you started taking me to the Lounge. I had to go to the hospital. Verán came around to see me, and he found out.”

“Why didn’t you tell me right away? I just made a fool of myself.” Tollsha wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or horrified. This meant Verán had known about previous incidents—worse than this?—and not done a thing. “And if Verán knows, why the hell are you even still living here?” It was completely within Verán’s power to take the boy out of the path of Uncle’s rage.

The boy shrugged in a dry, superior little way he had, like his thoughts were oh-so-much-more-subtle than yours. “Fir Verán says it’s proper and customary for me to live with Fir Magistrate. He doesn’t want to be seen as monopolizing the party’s asset. It could create dissension.”

Figured there was some bullshit political reason. Shaking his head, Tollsha erased what he’d written and redrafted: _His face is messed up. Impossible to hide._

This time, they both waited two minutes for the reply. _Saldegren can handle it._

Agitation drove Tollsha to his feet. He typed as he paced: _It’s rough this time. Obvious._

He didn’t type _What I mean is that every fucking person in the Lounge will see my Uncle’s been beating someone who can’t fight back, you old mealy-mouthed fool._

They would make a spectacle, and it would shame the Lindens. Uncle would choose to see the situation as Tollsha’s fault, naturally. When he was displeased with his nephew, he always looked at him very seriously and said, “Blood will out.”

Verán’s next reply made Tollsha stop pacing. He stared at the screen, telling himself it didn’t say what it said.

Then he looked up at the boy. “He says, um . . . well. I don’t follow his logic.”

Technically, the boy’s face was blank. But anyone with half a brain could read contempt in the limpid pools of his eyes as he said, “It’s all right, Fir. I can fill in the rest. Fir Verán says I provoke this by being difficult with your Fir Uncle. It’s my way of trying to get out of working, and he has no patience with a little slut’s malingering and neither should you.”

Tollsha reread the message. Point for point. “That’s the gist,” he said, hating himself. “I don’t want to disagree with the majority leader here, but uh—”

“There’s no need to disagree, Fir.” The boy rose as smoothly as he’d sat down. “He’s made himself clear. We go to the Lounge.”

Tollsha caught himself wringing his hands. When he went to work for Uncle as a Council aid, this wasn’t what he’d signed up for.

“Do you really provoke him?” he asked almost hopefully, wanting to believe it was all some intricate consensual game. After all, the boy was _huge_; he could knock Uncle over with a flick of his finger. For him to take damage like that from a frail old man—well, he’d have to stand there and just _take_ it.

Halfway to the door, the boy turned round and gave Tollsha a look that was respectful and yet, in its own subtle way, withering. “Does it matter, Fir?”

***

_Now_

Queasy. That was how Tollsha felt whenever he thought about Tilrey Bronn. Queasy and disgusted with himself because yes, he’d known better, and no, he hadn’t helped. Hadn’t even really wanted to help, not enough, because the boy’s cold, superior composure annoyed the shit out of him.

Tollsha had mostly forgotten about those awful nights at the Lounge, because he had more important things to take care of, but the old queasiness rushed back when he found Tilrey and his wife in their little love nest.

The whole mess felt like the boy’s revenge on Tollsha, whether it was planned that way or not. The way Vera fawned over Tilrey when she never even wanted Tollsha to touch her. The way she scolded Tollsha and shooed him away like a naughty child. Could you blame him for losing his temper?

Tollsha was still slightly ashamed of how he’d behaved that evening, but Vera deserved to have all the facts about who she was fucking. Someone who had a grudge against the Lindens (okay, yes, maybe a justified one). Someone who might well have a grudge against the Linnetts, too. Every time Tollsha saw Tilrey Bronn in the Sector, the boy had ice cold in his eyes.

Tollsha couldn’t help what had happened in the past. All he could do was cope with the present.

He’d always been passingly curious about Thurskein, where Sibylla’s branch of his father’s family originated. But now he felt queasy (again) as he stepped through the massive sliding doors of the city into the greenish glare of fluorescents.

The Drudge at the checkpoint droned, “Hand on the sensor, please.” Then he froze, nonplussed, as he took in Tollsha’s R-11 clothes. Perhaps he’d never seen a fitted greatcoat with a tweed outer layer before.

Tollsha pressed the back of his left hand to the sensor with a condescending smile. “I’m here on business.” Just let them dare ask him to explain himself.

_You are being a shit, dear cousin, _Sibylla said in his head.

“Of course, F-Fir Councillor.” The Drudge official was beet red. “Should I notify Supervisor Lindtmerán?”

“No, thank you. I’ll surprise him—him, her, whatever.” And with that, Tollsha swept on through a nondescript hallway toward the lift.

He knew where to go because Sibylla sometimes visited her own distant relatives in Sector Four. She’d described the route from the lower transport decks to the suites where Upstarts were accommodated, assuring him that all the sectors of Thurskein were laid out the same way.

Then she’d said, “I’m telling you this only because it sounds like you’re worried about Vera and the baby. But if you’re going to storm in there and be a dick to everybody, then fuck you, Tollsha.”

“Fuck _you_,” he’d shot back. It was a pretty standard exchange between them. And then, “I’ll keep my temper and be respectful. Promise.” _I’m not like Uncle, may his last moment be bright._

“I hope so,” Sibylla said. “I know you _can _be a dick, but you don’t have to be.”

Frankness was one of the many things Tollsha liked about Drudges—ones like Sibylla and his other cousins, anyway. They had no patience for the endless gab and subterfuge of Upstarts. They knew he wouldn’t take offense at insolence from his own flesh and blood, so they gave it to him straight and drank him under the table.

He arrived at the lift to find a small cluster of Drudges already waiting to ascend. A few of the younger ones were tipsy and not trying to hide it. Others shot him wary looks, followed by disapproving ones at the revelers. Were these Skeinshaka of higher status, or just elders? He couldn’t tell; everybody was wearing what looked like the same damn coverall.

Tollsha smiled pleasantly to show everyone he was not _that _kind of Strutter, the kind who’d order them around. Well, not unless he needed to.

His gaze lingered on a buxom young woman whose long dark hair was escaping from a braid. She smiled back, sloppy-drunk, and he winked at her. She blushed. The raw-boned youth beside her wrapped his arm around her waist and glared at Tollsha—not a glare tempered with deference, but a glare that said he was fantasizing about tearing Tollsha’s throat out.

The lift doors popped open. As they filed inside, Tollsha savored the adrenaline rush. What if the lout actually did attack him? After hours of fretting about Vera, he would’ve liked an excuse to pound someone into the floor.

But the girl with the braid and her boyfriend waited for the next lift, to his disappointment. _Coward, _he thought as the doors closed on them.

_Blood will out_, Uncle used to say. Fighting, drinking, stuffing yourself with food, raising your voice to tell long-winded stories and stupid jokes around a big table—all these were Drudge pleasures, and they were Tollsha’s favorite things, too, green help him. What was the point of being alive if you had to devote your whole self to rationality and decorum?

Tollsha could fake the proper Linden manners, but none of it came naturally. He’d struggled his entire life to understand the paradoxical nature of being an Upstart, how you were supposed to have all this power and almost never use it for fun.

Vera, on the other hand . . . His throat closed as he remembered how haughty she’d been that evening he found her with Tilrey. She had a way of making Tollsha feel small and dirty even when _she _was the one doing something stupid.

Things were supposed to be getting better between the two of them. Things had been getting better. The evening with Tilrey was a low point, yes, and the perfunctory coupling sessions that followed were the opposite of fun. But then Vera announced she was pregnant, and everybody was happy, or happi_er_. Her parents were over the moon, and she started being civil to Tollsha and even friendly on occasion.

Neither of them had mentioned her lover in the ensuing months. It was a condition of the unspoken truce between them. Tollsha couldn’t in good conscience ask if his wife was still seeing Tilrey when he currently had three rotating girlfriends of his own—sweet sly Drudges who laughed at his jokes and were never uptight.

He and Vera had been getting along, though. They had perfectly fine little discussions about possible names for the baby whenever they saw each other—which, admittedly, was no more than two or three days in ten.

In August, they’d had dinner together two whole times, just the pair of them, and they’d found themselves gossiping like old schoolmates over the doings of the Sector. Tollsha told some of his stupid jokes, and miracle of miracles, Vera laughed.

More recently, though, her mood seemed to have shifted again. She went back to avoiding Tollsha unless obligations brought them together. He twice caught her looking at him with an expression he could only describe as _cringing._

When Sibylla casually mentioned that she’d run into Vera on the way out of moral rehab, where she was visiting one of her old Hargist friends, Tollsha had grilled her, hoping for clues to his wife’s mood. “How did Vera look? What did she ask you about?”

Sibylla rolled her eyes. “What was she supposed to ask? She doesn’t know we’re related, and I wasn’t going to tell her. She looked pissy. She probably thinks I’m one of your girls on the side.”

“But why was she there?” He wondered if Vera’s mood swings had to do with her brother.

“How could I ask her a question like that? Why don’t _you_ just ask her what’s wrong?”

His cousin was right, but Tollsha hadn’t asked. He couldn’t seem to find the words. And finally, right before her due date, Vera disappeared into the black hole of Thurskein, leaving her husband to chase after her like an idiot.

He was trying so hard to be worthy of his name, dispassionate and rational and dignified. He was.

The lift stopped to disgorge some passengers. The pleasant fizz of adrenaline in Tollsha’s head had faded. He didn’t like the sidelong glances the Drudges gave him as he pressed his hand to the sensor and pushed the button for the top floor. _Your chip will give you full access, _Sibylla had assured him.

Soon he was all alone in the steel cubicle, trundling steadily upward. And the thoughts he’d tried to repress were flocking in thick and fast.

How much had Tilrey told Vera? That was the thing he always came back to. He was bothered by them fucking, yes. But way more than that, he was bothered by what they might say to each other.

Had Tilrey told her about that night with the black eye and fat lip? Had he told her how, when he and Tollsha arrived at the Lounge, everything went spectacularly wrong?

Despite what Verán had promised, Councillor Saldegren didn’t simply “handle” the situation. He reacted to Tilrey’s battered face with a look of horror before shifting his gaze to Tollsha, the horror curdling into accusation. “Who did this?”

Tollsha was speechless. It was Tilrey who lied for them: “I got in a fight, Fir.”

Saldegren wasn’t so easily fooled. “Nonsense, love,” he said, patting the boy’s arm. “I know you better than that.” And then, to Tollsha: “I want you to tell Verán that I consider this a personal insult. If he wants my support, he’ll make sure this never, ever happens again.”

Tollsha was red all over, but what could he say in Uncle’s defense? He could only nod, choked with shame, as Saldegren continued: “And I don’t just mean keep the aftermath out of my sight. We all have the greatest respect for your uncle, Tollsha, but this isn’t working. Tell Verán to find the boy a home with someone who won’t mistreat or monopolize him. A nice quiet junior Councillor. Gádden, maybe?”

The whole time, Tollsha kept nodding. Tilrey stared down at the table. For the first time, Tollsha felt a twinge of something more than abstract sympathy for the boy. Both trapped in their roles, they were like scolded children, though none of this was their fault (was it?).

To make his point, Saldegren refused to take the boy home “in this condition.” So they went home to Tollsha’s apartment because there was nowhere else to go without letting Uncle know what had happened.

Tollsha said, “You can sleep on the couch. I’ll find some blankets.”

The boy acted like he hadn’t heard. “I need to be of use. Let me at least make tea for you, Fir.”

He did more than that. After serving the tea, he got down on his knees and unfastened Tollsha’s trousers, and Tollsha didn’t stop him. He let it happen.

Tollsha had told Vera about that night in front of Tilrey, throwing it out like a taunt, but he wasn’t proud of it. Sucking Tollsha’s cock seemed like just something the boy felt he had to do, no different from brewing the tea and arranging the tumblers on a tray. It had been good—for Tollsha, anyway—but it hadn’t been flattering. He felt like a fucking prop.

After that, though, he felt bad about making the boy sleep on the couch, so he said, “We can share the bed if you want.”

Tilrey nodded as if he’d assumed this. “You can have me if you like, Fir. Verán says a party member should always have me on free-nights, and you’re your uncle’s proxy tonight, so . . .”

_Verdant hells, no_. Tollsha stumbled through a polite refusal, unable to explain that the offer was way too creepily clinical for him. He liked to fuck people (usually girls) who were enthusiastic about having his cock inside them. People he’d shared some drinks and some laughs with. He was basic that way.

The boy didn’t undress when they lay down together, and Tollsha was happy with that. They started out on opposite sides of the bed. But at some point during the night Tollsha woke up pressed against Tilrey’s warmth and heard his own voice saying in a half-drunk, half-asleep way, “I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry about everything.” And he heard Tilrey replying in a bizarrely kind voice, “It’s all right, it’s okay.”

Or maybe Tollsha only dreamt that part. But either way, green hells, he hoped Tilrey never told Vera about that night.

A shrill tone sounded. The doors opened, and Tollsha stepped out.

This corridor was nicer than the lower levels, with carpeting and soft-white lights in recessed fixtures. He did his best to recall Sibylla’s instructions. Third corridor to the right? Or to the left? Never mind, he’d figure it out. Vera was here somewhere.

Tilrey wouldn’t tell Vera, would he? He wouldn’t tell her how Tollsha had asked him that night if he’d really provoked Uncle. Not unless he was playing a perverse game with them both.

Because, if Tilrey _had _told, that might explain Vera’s renewed coldness. She already thought Tollsha was a boor. Knowing the details of that night might make her decide he was unworthy of raising their child.

Was that the third turning, or the second? Tollsha was lost. The lack of windows and doors was the problem, he decided, retracing his steps. No tram platforms like he was used to, no openings to the outside world. The whole place was like a gigantic prison—no, _was_ one. He was just glad he wasn’t the one locked in it.

Hushed voices to his left, from the intersection just ahead. One was a querulous tenor, the other deeper. They were interrupted by a little murmur that didn’t sound like an adult’s voice at all_._

Tollsha peered into the branching corridor. What he saw there made blood speed from his extremities to the center of his body, leaving him so lightheaded he had to reach out and steady himself on the wall.

It was Tilrey, all right. Not with Vera, but with Gersha Gádden. The young man held a bundle in his arms, and they were both gazing down at it—the Councillor with a look of rapture, the boy with a more guarded one. Neither of them seemed to have noticed Tollsha standing a few yards away.

He cleared his throat. But before they could look up, the bundle began to wail. Tollsha pressed his back to the wall as if he were the one who’d been caught doing something wrong.

_My child? Could it be? How dare they?_

Across the hall, a door snapped open. A woman’s authoritative voice said, “He probably needs to be fed.”

His mother-in-law. And naturally she was the one to spot him.

Tollsha was reasonably sure he _wasn’t_ in the wrong, but Albertine’s imperious eyes had a way of making him feel otherwise. He froze in place. Gersha and Tilrey turned to stare, too, and for once Tollsha couldn’t think of a single cutting, superior thing to say.

Luckily, his mother-in-law was not at a loss. When the infant had been securely transferred to her arms, she beckoned Tollsha matter-of-factly, as if she couldn’t see he was speechless with shock and rage. “How lucky you’re here, Tollsha, and at just the right moment. Vera would like to have a talk with you.”


	21. A Role in the Melodrama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What has Gersha been doing while Tollsha was huffing and puffing his way to Thurskein? Glad you asked...

Gersha was tired, but he couldn’t sleep with so much unresolved. His head felt hot and tight, and his thoughts kept racing in circles. He was curled up on the couch in the tiny living room of the suite, trying to catch up with correspondence on his handheld, when the door opened and Tilrey came in.

Not alone. He held a blanket-wrapped bundle as carefully as if it were—what? A bomb primed to explode, Gersha thought first, but no, Tilrey wasn’t just being careful. His features had an inner illumination, as if he were studying a Harbourer text he loved.

Gersha’s breath caught. Before he knew it, he was on his feet beside Tilrey, peering down at a small, sleeping face.

“We have five minutes,” Tilrey said in a rumble pitched not to wake the infant. “Vera said I could show him to you, but she’s not keen to let him out of her sight for long.”

The first thing Gersha noticed was the contrast between Tilrey’s strong arms and shoulders—strong enough to drag Gersha’s weight through a snowstorm—and the delicate burden they held. The second thing was how much the infant looked like Tilrey in repose, with those fine dark lashes and full lips slightly parted. A spasm of tenderness gripped Gersha, making him want to press them both close to his heart, but he remained riveted to the spot.

“His name is Ceillian—Ceill. And yes, he looks like me.” Tilrey chuckled. “My mom will _not _let it go. I keep telling her his coloring could change.”

At that moment Ceill opened his eyes. They wandered around the room, over the two faces above him. Though Gersha knew perfectly well a newborn wasn’t yet capable of focusing, he felt oddly seen, as if he’d been drawn into the inner circle of this just-starting life. As if he belonged.

“He’s not like you,” he found himself saying. “I mean, physically, yes. But he’s not you, Rishka. He’s not going to grow up anything like you.”

Tilrey’s smile had a bitter twist. “I hope not. He’s going to be a Linnett. Want to hold him?”

The first few seconds of holding Ceill were terrifying; Gersha couldn’t shake the irrational conviction that he was going to drop him. But the bundle settled easily in his arms. The baby closed his eyes again and breathed peacefully, as if he knew something Gersha didn’t.

In a low voice, Tilrey summed up what had happened next door. Albertine Linnett was here in Thurskein, and she was determined the boy should grow up legally recognized as her grandson.

Gersha knew he should be surprised by this development, even elated, but the rise and fall of Ceill’s chest mesmerized him. All the rest was background noise—the sort of thing his uncle and cousins cared about.

All this fuss about lineage and legalities. Gersha wondered if his own birth had been accompanied by this much fretting. His mother’s family was considered unworthy of being linked to the Gáddens, so one pair of grandparents had died near-strangers to him. He wouldn’t recognize his maternal uncle or cousins on the street.

“I never got on with them anyway,” his mother had said defensively when he asked her about her family. “Bunch of underachievers. Onward and upward, right?”

“Ceill won’t be like you,” Gersha repeated.

Again Tilrey gave him that ambiguous smile. “You seem so sure.”

“I’m only saying it because I think it worries you. Am I wrong about that?” He rocked Ceill. “But if Tollsha agrees to be his legal father, then Ceill won’t even know you, will he?”

Tilrey was already checking the clock and holding out his arms for the baby. “That’s where it gets complicated. My mother’s determined to be his grandmother, too. And Vera supports her.”

“She does?” Handing Ceill over, Gersha felt a rush of gratitude to Vera Linnett for the first time in his life. “She’s right. He should know both sides of his family.”

“Try explaining that to Tollsha Linden.”

Tilrey headed for the door, the baby in his arms, and Gersha opened it for them. “You mustn’t let the Linnetts and the Lindens _take_ him,” he said, putting quiet force behind each word. “He should grow up in a world with both Upstarts and Laborers. Or better—in a world where those words don’t mean anything.”

Stepping into the hall, Tilrey smiled over Ceill’s head—that old radiant smile of his, but with an edge. “I wish,” he said.

And Gersha knew they were both thinking of the Southern Hearth, everyone wearing coveralls, and that late-summer day, scented with humid earth and flowers, when they’d clasped hands and solemnized their bond. For an instant he was in that moment again, and Ceill was with them, safe in the crook of Tilrey’s arm.

Then they were back in the sterile corridor, with its gray carpet and off-white walls. The baby opened his mouth and bawled.

“Not a moment too soon,” Tilrey said as the opposite door opened.

Albertine Linnett stepped out. “He probably needs to be fed.”

She broke off, her head jerking to the right. Gersha thought at first she was unpleasantly surprised to see him, but her eyes skimmed right over him—to Tollsha Linden, who stood a few paces away.

Confusion and fury warred for dominance on Tollsha’s face, his normally smug mouth listing to the side. Gersha could feel his own face mirroring the dismay. _What the hell is he doing here?_ He wanted to throw himself in front of Tilrey, to shield his husband and Ceill from the anger, but he couldn’t seem to move.

Albertine had more presence of mind. She took the wailing baby from Tilrey and said something to Tollsha that Gersha didn’t hear, crooking a finger.

Tollsha’s eyes flashed from his mother-in-law to Gersha to Tilrey, as if he were weighing the benefits of an immediate confrontation. But the Upstart training held. He stiffened his upper lip and went to Albertine, averting his eyes as if the two of them were beneath his notice.

The door closed.

“Shit,” Tilrey whispered.

Gersha reached for his elbow, eager to draw him back to the safety of their suite. “Did the Linnetts ask him to come?”

“No! The plan was—”

But before he could finish, the door opened again and Lisha appeared. “Fir Councillor! Gersha! So good to see you again.” Her smile was distracted. “Rishka, I think we need you.”

Tilrey touched Gersha’s cheek. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Gersha’s heart sank. “I’m going with you. If that bastard tries to lay a hand on you, he’ll be sorry he ever—”

“Gersha.” Tilrey’s eyes were tender but preoccupied. “He’s not going to lay a hand on me, not in front of his wife and mother-in-law and the baby. Anyway, Albertine’s a politician. She knows how to smooth feelings.”

Gersha wasn’t sure how much faith he had in Albertine’s power to smooth over Tollsha’s rage, but he remembered Artur’s lecture about giving Tilrey his space. “Remember he’s your child,” he said through his tight jaw.

_Go fight for him. _He couldn’t quite add that, but he thought the words as hard as he could.

Tilrey gave him a last nod, and the door closed, leaving Gersha staring at it.

Tears rose to his eyes and pooled there, not ready to spill over. He wanted so badly to open that door, to stride in and wield some sort of authority. But what good would it do?

“Left all alone, Fir Councillor?”

Gersha whirled, half expecting a second intruder from Redda. But no, it was only Tilrey’s friend Dal with an impish look on her face. Normally he would have been happy to see her.

“I’m supposed to be resting,” he said dourly.

“You don’t seem to be doing too well at it, Fir.” Dal held up a bottle that winked green in the light. “Would you like to come and share a humble toast to the newly lit candle?”

Same old Dal, equally free of respectfulness and pretension. She liked to know everything that went on in Tilrey’s life, treating both her childhood friend and (to a lesser extent) Gersha with an affectionate, teasing possessiveness. Gersha wondered if she knew about Ceill’s parentage; he wouldn’t put it past her. Or maybe she wanted to pump him for information.

“I would be glad to,” he said. He could use a dose of Dal’s bracing nerve, and anything was better right now than returning to the suite alone.

They rode the lift into the bowels of the city in silence, Gersha’s stomach flipping as the floors winked past. People got on and off, shooting him the usual curious glances. They were alone again when the doors slid open on a concrete passage lit intermittently by greenish caged beacons.

“Come along, Fir.” Dal led him through a labyrinth of identical corridors. Everything smelled musty, except where high voltage singed the air. Gersha heard the hiss of steam being released behind one door, the creak of heavy machinery behind another.

“Where are we?” he asked as Dal pulled out a keycard and inserted it.

A steel door slid back, and she ushered him into a supply room crowded with crates and husks of old generators. “Maintenance level. This is where my pilots and mechanics have their smoke breaks.”

The door closed again, leaving the room lit only by a bluish tube on the far wall and a second light that was dimly visible through the porthole in a garage-style door.

Gersha peered through the porthole, expecting to see another interior passage. Instead, he found a sort of cave hollowed out in the snow, eerily illuminated by a violet LED. “This goes right outdoors?”

Dal sat down on a crate and popped open her bottle. “The snow’s deep here, and we’re in the basement. You’ve never seen a smokehole, Fir? They must have them in Redda.”

“I can’t say I know many pipe smokers.”

“Right, right, it’s a Drudge thing. You Strutters don’t need our illegal stimulants because you don’t work twelve-hour factory shifts.”

Gersha had long ago stopped taking offense at her deliberate provocations. “If we really had to compare the productivity of Thurskein Laborers versus Upstarts—”

“Let’s not start that argument, Fir. Anyway, there are too many alarms inside. So when folks want to smoke—” She shrugged. “A den in the snow with a neat little chimney hole at the top is quite snug.”

“I’m sure.” Gersha settled himself on a crate, trying not to look too uncomfortable. Dal passed him the bottle, and he took a swig, bracing for strong Drudge rotgut.

It was water. Gersha glared at the bottle, then at Dal. “I thought we were toasting.”

“I need you sober right now, Fir. Myself, too.” The coy teasing had evaporated; Dal was all business. “We’re here because there aren’t any cameras here. And because Ranek Egil asked me to check on you.”

The exile’s name made every muscle in Gersha’s body tighten. He clung to the bottle, wishing it were full of liquid courage. “I’m not sure I understand you, Magdalena. What would you know about Ranek Egil?”

Dal said in her resonant contralto, “Let’s not waste time. We both know Egil’s alive, Fir, and you were with him in the Southern Hearth. He witnessed your marriage, when Tilrey gave you that token you wear around your neck. And then you pledged yourself to us, just like Tilrey and me. _The True Hearth never stops burning._”

She was with them. Or she was with Int/Sec—but then how would she know about the Southern Hearth? Gersha grabbed for the chain around his neck before he could stop himself. It was a reflex, rubbing the ancient Tangle coin between his thumb and forefinger. The wild beating of his heart didn’t subside. “Ranek told you all that?”

“Gersha.” Dal rose and stood looking down at him, her great dark eyes on his. “You’re scared.”

_What else could I be? _“You’ve ambushed me, and you’re saying outrageous things. Explain yourself.”

“Calm down. Tilrey’s my oldest friend, and I’ll guard his safety with my life. Yours too—if only for his sake.”

Gersha was shaking so hard in the chilly air that it was an effort not to let his teeth chatter. “Does Tilrey know?”

“He’s known for a long time. But he’s busy with the little misbirth melodrama they have going upstairs. Anyway, you can stop pretending to be shocked, because I know everything.” She wiped all expression from her face. “Gersha, why did you two come here on a military plane from the north? What were you doing in the mountains?”

Gersha had opened his mouth to say that Ceill was _not_ a misbirth, that there was no such thing. But her questions stopped him cold. “Who wants to know? Who’s been keeping tabs on us?”

That tone would have made any Laborer in the Sector quail, but Dal didn’t blink. “This is a team effort, Fir Councillor. Everybody plays their part. You can’t just go off and do things on your own. Your friend Ranek knows that.”

His throat was dry. “So you take your orders from Ranek?”

“Not exactly. But we talk. I know Ranek’s worried you might start having doubts. Little wobbles in your conviction. Regrets, even.”

Her tone, combined with her Skeinsha accent, made Gersha blush fiercely with an outrage he couldn’t control. _For a Drudge to talk to me that way! To question my word!_

But he knew Dal and liked Dal, so he forced himself to answer in a level voice. “I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t have wobbles. It’s a big leap for me. But if I betray any of you, I betray the person I care most about in the world. Ranek knows that. Did you know, by the way, that he’s set up a miniature Int/Sec in the basement of the Southern Hearth?”

Dal didn’t look surprised. “And that’s one reason I’m glad Ranek isn’t my superior. But we’re not talking about the Southern Hearth right now. It’s not a permanent solution. We’re talking about you and Tilrey, Fir, and especially about you. So. Where were the two of you just now?”

Dal would have made an excellent recruit for an interrogator position at Int/Sec. Those big, still eyes of hers had a way of reflecting your own guilt back at you, whether you were actually guilty or not.

Was she interrogating Gersha simply because Tilrey was busy? Or because she thought he was the weaker link of the two, the one more likely to spill? He drew himself up. “I believe Tilrey intends to give a full report of his trip north to your colleagues in Redda, in his own time. Until then, I defer to his judgment and have nothing to say.”

Dal’s mouth twisted. “You defer to _Tilrey_?”

He met her gaze. “I do.”

“Are you telling me the truth, Fir, or just making excuses? Because I’ve never known you to defer to Drudges before.”

Gersha remembered Tilrey negotiating with Ranek for their release from the Southern Hearth. Tilrey hauling him through the snow to the safety of Artur’s house. Tilrey disappearing into that damn suite behind his mother.

“He’s earned my deference, and I am telling you the truth,” he said. “And there’s no need to call me Fir when there are no cameras watching. If you’re thinking I only changed sides on a whim, because I’m in love with your friend—well, then you underestimate us both.”

“We aren’t discussing—”

“Let me finish, please. Until today, Tilrey was the only shirker I knew in all of Oslov. My primary allegiance is to him. If I answered your question, I would be breaking my trust with him, which I have no intention of doing.”

Dal’s voice had become a cutting instrument. “No? And what if you were sitting in an Int/Sec interrogation room right now?”

“Same.” Gersha managed to keep his voice steady, though he knew what sort of methods Int/Sec used. “As long as I was able, anyway. I’m not some flighty teenager, Dal.” He remembered Tilrey’s advice that sometimes you could baffle an opponent with a quick turn from defense to offense. “And I have questions for you, too.”

“Do you?” She looked amused.

“I know what Tilrey wants, and I think I know what Ranek wants.” _Though I have misgivings about it. _“But you, Dal—what do you want from a rebellion? Do you want revenge on Upstarts? Or to replace us?”

He expected Dal to be offended, the way Tilrey had been when Gersha made a similar suggestion. Instead, she laughed out loud.

“That’s really what you think—that this is about revenge on Upstarts? You’re one of maybe five Upstarts I’ve met in my life. I couldn’t care less about revenge. Maybe I should, for Tilrey’s sake, but I don’t.”

He stared at her, realizing abruptly how alien her daily experience must be to him. “What do you care about, then?”

“Freedom.” Dal gestured at the ghostly light of the porthole. “Do you know how many times I’ve been outside the city wall, Gersha? Three, because Tilrey and I snuck out when we were kids, exploring. That was before they got wise and fixed the breach. If we tried it now, we’d be shot or electrocuted. And we never got far because, well, this city is surrounded by a natural barrier of freezing fucking tundra.”

The standard responses flew to Gersha’s lips. _Society depends on order. Order depends on boundaries_. “Upstarts’ movements are limited, too,” he pointed out. “The cold is a natural boundary, yes, but it protects us from the rest of the world. If we don’t stick together, we all freeze.”

Dal plucked the bottle out of his hand and took a swig. “Spare me, Gersha. I know every single justification for keeping us locked up. But you’ve been to Harbour. You know the cold is just the bogeyman they use to keep us in line.”

Gersha thought of everything Moneta had said about Colonel Thibault’s court. “Harbour isn’t ‘free,’ if that’s what you’re hoping. In some ways it’s worse. There’s no such thing as total freedom anywhere, not without chaos. That’s what the Tangle taught us.”

“Lucky for me, I don’t need total freedom.” Dal’s eyes blazed at him through the dimness. “I’d settle for getting the fuck out of here once in my life. And I’m not going to torture you today, so if you’re not going to tell me what you and Tilrey were doing up north, then we may as well go right back upstairs.”

***

They rode back up in silence. Gersha wanted to tell Dal about Ceill, about his premonition that Ceill’s mixed parentage would make him the ideal citizen for an Oslov stripped of Levels, but he had a feeling she’d roll her eyes. Maybe Gersha was being a foolish idealist again, exercising the privilege of an Upstart to dream.

He just wanted to believe in that world he’d briefly glimpsed on the warm afternoon in the Southern Hearth when Tilrey placed the pendant around his neck.

In a low voice, he asked, “Have you seen the baby? He’s . . . splendid.”

“I saw him.” Dal’s eyes were on the floor indicator. “Some of the labor, too. She’s a piece of work, that Vera. Some nerve she has, coming here.”

“You admire her,” Gersha said in surprise.

“Maybe a little.” The lift dinged, and Dal stepped to the door and held it open. “She knows what she wants, even if it’s absurd. This is my stop. Can you find your way back, Fir?”

He nodded as authoritatively as he dared. “Shall I tell Tilrey what we talked about?”

“Tell him whatever you like. In private.” Dal’s voice dropped to a whisper. “This isn’t the end of the conversation, Fir Councillor. There are others in Redda who may want to continue it.”

“I understand.” Gersha tried to sound insouciant, though the thought of strangers ambushing him at home unsettled him. “I’m glad we talked, Dal.”

Stepping out of the lift, she shot him a glance that was almost warm. “Me too.”

Before he could answer, a crowd of chattering workers in coveralls got in the way, piling into the upbound lift. Commuters, Gersha gathered from snatches of their conversation. In the nearly windowless city, with the world outside shrouded in darkness, he’d lost all sense of time, but apparently it was morning. Fueled by tea and porridge, Sector Six’s pencil pushers were headed to their desks.

On impulse, Gersha followed them off the lift five floors short of his stop. He tagged along and watched them disperse into their offices. Then he wandered the corridors—around and around, up and down stairs, past offices and daycares and living spaces and rec lounges and cafeterias, till he felt thoroughly, gloriously lost.

He wasn’t, of course. The lifts were centrally located; it was easy to find one’s way back. But the muted clamor of strangers’ voices was oddly soothing. And his explorations gave him an excuse not to worry about what Tilrey and Tollsha were saying to each other right now, assuming they were still civil enough for words.

It pained Gersha to think of Tilrey bowing his head before that cocky ass the way he probably had so many times before, in Redda. It felt profoundly wrong that Tollsha should have anything to do with Ceill. But wasn’t it Tilrey’s decision in the end?

In his hasty exit from the suite upstairs, Gersha hadn’t bothered to buckle his tunic over his shirt and trousers, which put him outside regulation. The Skeinshaka who passed him in the halls must be wondering what exactly he was. Not a Laborer like them, but not a proper Upstart, either.

_I might as well be no one. They’re taking the kid away, and I can’t do a damn thing about it_. Not that it was any of his business. He was no more blood kin to Ceill than Tollsha was. Vera’s decision, Tilrey’s decision. But, but . . .

He wondered if anyone would have the boldness to report him for wardrobe violations. He almost wanted them to.

He kept walking and walking. He had no idea where he was when a jovial voice called to him: “Gersha! Come have a drink with me!”

The voice was all too familiar—Reddan-accented, plummy like a high Upstart’s, with a note of hysteria in its good cheer. Was he imagining things?

“Gersha!” The air in this corridor had an astringent prickle of alcohol. The voice came from a rec area on his right—the shiny zinc bar closed, chairs stacked on tables.

So much for anonymity. How had the last person he wanted to see landed down here, too?

Gersha watched as Tollsha Linden floundered down from the table on which he’d been perched, bottle in hand, and lurched into the hallway. The smell preceded him. Gersha’s nostrils wrinkled.

“Bit early to be getting wasted, isn’t it?” he inquired.

Tollsha grinned and thrust the bottle at him. “Nah,” he slurred. “Not too early for anything. More like too late.”

***

At last, Gersha had a useful role in what Dal had called the “misbirth melodrama.”

He had never exchanged more than a few words with Tollsha Linden. A survival instinct from his school days steered him away from loud, athletic males who were prone to travel in packs. He certainly had no desire to drink with Tollsha, but as long as he was keeping the young Councillor busy, he was also keeping him out of trouble and far away from Tilrey and Ceill. His tired brain could think no further.

Tollsha seemed content to wander the corridors aimlessly beside Gersha, bottle in hand. When they reached a staircase, he plopped down halfway up it, collapsed against the cinderblock wall, and took another swig. “Pretty good stuff. Better ’n I expected from this shithole. They di’nt want to give it to me because they were closing up, but I told them I could have them arrested for . . . something. Drink with me.”

The morning rush was over, and the stairwell was empty, only their two voices echoing up to the distant concrete ceiling. Gersha stepped closer, scrutinizing Tollsha for signs he’d been fighting—bruises, disarray. But Tollsha’s R-11 suit was impeccable, his tunic buckled over his incipient paunch.

“Fine.” Gersha took a small sip from the bottle. The liquor gave him a coughing fit, chest warming and eyes tearing.

Tollsha yelped with laughter and grabbed the bottle back. “Don’t know why you’re not already plastered. Look at you. You’re in wardrobe violation. You barely know what’s happening right now.”

Gersha glanced down at his clothes, self-conscious again. “It’s not that at all. I had a long trip. I haven’t slept.”

“Yeah, but it’s a shock, right? You trust somebody, and they betray you. I mean, it’s not the same for you as for me, obviously. She’s my _wife. _But you care about him, right? And he went behind your back.”

_He’s my husband. _Maybe Gersha did have something in common with the pink-faced sloppy drunk whose towhead was lolling against the cinderblocks. They’d both been raised to expect loyalty from their equals and demand it from their inferiors.

So Gersha wouldn’t correct Tollsha’s assumption that he, too, was just learning who Ceill’s father was. He would focus on their similarities, not their differences. “I don’t consider myself betrayed,” Gersha said. “You, either.”

“So he’s just a piece of ass to you?”

Gersha gave him a scathing look, and Tollsha hiccuped. “Okay, so it’s more. You two are lovers. When a lover’s faithless, that’s betrayal.”

“Oh, really?” Gersha knew how it felt to give up any illusion of possessing the person you loved. “Do you even love Vera?” he asked, using the word _ináthera_.

Tollsha’s blue eyes fixed him for an instant before unfocusing. “What’s love got to do with marriage? Marriage, it’s about offspring. _Legitimate_ offspring.” He raised his pointer finger, then frowned like he’d forgotten what to say. “I wanted a kid, Gersha. With all my heart. Coulda been a good dad. Not good at much, but I could’ve done that.”

What had gone on upstairs? Gersha’s instinct was to inch away from Tollsha, whose glassy eyes suggested a blubber might be near. But he stayed where he was and kept his tone neutral, remembering his role. _Keep him busy. Talk him down_. “And you will be. It’s my understanding that Vera wants you to be her son’s father.”

Tollsha wiped his eyes on his sleeve and took another mighty swig. “So I heard,” he said when he came up for air. “But here’s the thing—she’s putting _conditions _on it. She wants her bastard to know his Drudge family. To know who—_what_—he really is. And that? It’s going too far. I’m not having it.” Again a swipe across the eyes. “No, not having it. I’m not some patsy. I’m a _Linden_. So I told her I’ve got conditions of my own. I won’t play her little charade unless it’s by my rules. I won’t be the kid’s dad unless I’m the _only_ dad. None of this fucking around in ’Skein, pretending these people are our equals.”

Gersha kept his face placid, his indignation silent. “So you gave Vera an ultimatum?”

“Damn straight I did. She has conditions? So do I. No fraternizing with Tilrey, no visits to Thurskein. And she has to bear me two more kids after this, biology willing, and give them the Linden name. It’s only fair, right? Don’t you think that’s fair?”

Tollsha’s generous lips twisted as he spoke, and Gersha felt a mix of repulsion and unwelcome empathy. “I understand wanting to safeguard the honor of your name,” he said. “I was raised the same way. But do you really think punishing your wife is going to help?”

Tollsha jabbed a finger at him. “She says it was an accident. But how often is there really an accident? Vera’s not careless, and she’s not stupid. She _wanted _this to happen.”

In his heart of hearts, Gersha thought the same. It was no stretch for him to imagine Vera wanting to bond herself to Tilrey in the most permanent way she could. He felt a stab of pity for Tollsha, who was obviously nowhere near inspiring such feelings in his wife.

“Don’t you deserve a wife who wants you?” he found himself asking. “Who adores you so much she can’t imagine anything better than having your children?”

“Plenty of girls adore me.” Tollsha released his breath in a huff. “_Plenty_. Can’t marry ’em, is all, because they’re Drudges.” He narrowed his eyes on Gersha. “And Vera can’t marry her little Skeinsha slut.”

Normally this would have been enough to send Gersha into a rage, but a weird detachment had hold of him. Maybe it was the surreal conversation he’d had with Dal, or the sleeplessness, or that glowing memory of Ceill’s face. He had a sense of steering the situation exactly where it should go, even though he couldn’t have told himself where that was.

_Hang on, little one, _he vowed to the baby in some mad corner of his mind. _Everything’s going to work out just fine for you. You’ll see._

“You can insult Tilrey till you’re blue in the face,” he told Tollsha quietly. “It won’t change the fact that she chose him.”

Tollsha flushed, but he didn’t explode. “Vera’s a silly little girl. She doesn’t know what she wants.”

“Maybe not. But you deserve a chance, don’t you, Tollsha? To be happy. And I don’t think you and Vera can be happy together.”

Tollsha took another swig. “Are _you_ happy, Gersha? How happy are you gonna be if Vera ends up with your precious boy?”

“She won’t.” For once in his life, Gersha felt not a whisper of doubt. “Tilrey doesn’t want Vera—he never has. She’ll have to find her happiness somewhere else, just like you. But she wants her son to have a father who loves him like his own, and there I agree with her.”

Tollsha’s eyes had gone shiny again. “I would have loved him,” he said almost under his breath. “I told you—I _wanted _him. Do you know what it’s like to imagine seeing your kid get born and holding him and watching him grow up, and then suddenly to be told you’re nothing to him? A figurehead? A third wheel?”

Gersha let himself imagine it for a moment. “I don’t envy you. It must be a terrible shock. But people do bond with kids who aren’t biologically theirs,” he added as gently as he could. “All the time.”

“This isn’t like that.” Tollsha had averted his face, but Gersha could see the glitter of tears tracking down his cheeks. “She won’t even let me hold him. Doesn’t want me near him—not when _he_’s around. Her precious Tilrey. No, no, fuck no. I had a son and I loved my son. _My_ son died.”

For a bit, there was silence except for Tollsha’s broken, grunting sobs, which he did his best to stifle with his forearm. Gersha reached for the younger man’s shoulder and thought better of it. Then he threw caution to the winds and reached out after all.

Tollsha didn’t pull away from the touch. When his shoulders stopped convulsing, Gersha handed him a tissue. Tollsha wiped his face, loudly blew his nose, and took another ill-advised drink.

Gersha said, “I think I have a solution.”

Tollsha turned to peer at him, eyes bloodshot and filmed over. “This is way beyond solutions.”

“I can’t bring back the son you wanted. I’m sorry. But I think you’re right. You and Tilrey and Vera parenting this child together—that’s not going to work.”

Tollsha made a derisive sound. “I’d end up killing the bastard—or vice versa. Nah, I’d kill him. I don’t care how strong he is. I’d pound his polite, respectful face into the floor.”

“It would certainly be ugly,” Gersha said. He was fairly sure now that Tollsha’s threats were all talk. “For a parenting triad to work, each participant should actively like and respect at least one of the others. Preferably both of them.”

“Is that a rule you just made up?”

“I suppose.” Gersha rose and offered his hand. The younger Councillor gazed blearily up at him without budging.

Gersha couldn’t beat around the bush anymore. Ridiculous or not, he had to come out with the plan that his mind had somehow hatched without his conscious cooperation. “Tollsha, I’m going upstairs to make a proposal to Vera. She alone has the right to accept or refuse it. But it can’t possibly work without you.”

Tollsha looked as skeptical as a very drunk person can look. “You’re on my wife’s side, aren’t you? The three of you probably think this is hilarious.”

Gersha felt an itch of pity again. He’d experienced this kind of paranoia in the past, desperate to protect the pride of his name. “I barely even know your wife,” he said. “I’ve had maybe three conversations with her in my life.”

“And your precious Tilrey? Do you really know him? Does anyone?”

_I know him better than you can imagine. _But Tollsha was just lashing out, and Gersha knew better than to engage. “There’s no conspiracy here, Tollsha. I care about your pride enough to sacrifice my own. But first and foremost, I care about this child. I have an idea that might just serve all our ends. Will you please hear me out?”


	22. The Proposal

“Tollsha said yes to _that_?” Tilrey asked.

Gersha nodded. They were back in their suite, where Tilrey had retreated after the initial unsuccessful parley with Tollsha. He’d showered and shaved and was rubbing his wet hair with a towel, another one hanging fetchingly off his hips.

At any other time, Gersha would have been tempted to whip the towel off him. But right now he had to keep his eye on his purpose. “The ultimate choice is Vera’s,” he said. “But we need Tollsha’s cooperation, and we have it.”

“You must have done some diplomatic magic.”

Tilrey was clearly still smarting from his own encounter with Tollsha. Gersha wished they could take time to hash it out, but there wasn’t time. “I’m here because it wouldn’t be right for me even to suggest this avenue without getting your consent first. You _are _my husband.”

Tilrey straightened and looked at him, unsmiling. “To be honest, I think it’s a mad idea,” he said. “But Vera’s idea is even madder. The simplest route is not to involve me at all in raising this child. That would be best for him.”

Gersha resisted the urge to protest: _It wouldn’t be best, and you know it_. But it wasn’t the first time Tilrey had shocked him by accepting something seemingly unthinkable with a shrug.

_Do you really know him?_ Tollsha had asked. _Does anyone?_

“It _would_ be simpler,” he admitted, “just in terms of giving your son a smooth path through his life in Redda. But Tollsha and Vera might tear out each other’s throats. And your mother . . .”

Tilrey sighed. “My mother. Did Tollsha really say yes?”

Gersha had to smile at the memory of Tollsha’s reaction. “He laughed so hard I thought he’d burst a blood vessel. He told me I was cracked in the head. But after a while, he changed his tune and decided it might be fun to see it play out.” Gersha didn’t mention how he’d helped that change along: by involving Tollsha in the planning, saying flattering things about how valuable his social savvy would be. “He even had some clever ideas for making it work.”

Tilrey tossed both towels unceremoniously on the bed and turned to face Gersha, naked. “And you think you could put up with what you’re proposing? _You _wouldn’t want to tear Vera’s throat out?”

Such possibilities hadn’t even occurred to Gersha. “If I’m with you, I’m happy,” he said, feeling small and meek with Tilrey looming over him. “We would still be together. And Vera—well, I think we’d manage not to rub each other the wrong way. In any sense,” he added, a bit appalled by the visual his phrase had summoned.

Tilrey laughed dryly, picking up his pajama bottoms. “Tell me about it. Well, you could be right. It’s probably the best option we have left. But I want you to remember something, love.”

“What?” Gersha didn’t like that note in Tilrey’s voice.

The blue eyes went cold on his. “Vera did this without my knowledge. Without my consent. Whatever romantic fantasy she was playing out in her head, I hope it’s over. But she may still want more from me than I can give.”

Gersha’s breath caught. _Please don’t hate me for this. What I’m doing will keep us—the three of us—together._

“Then,” he said, picking each word with care, “you and Vera will need a buffer between you. Someone who understands both your points of view. Someone to keep you from needing to get too close. We both know Tollsha’s not the man for the job.”

Tilrey nodded, though his eyes were pinched as if he weren’t sure he wanted to see Gersha this way. “And you think you are.”

***

When the bedroom door opened to reveal Gersha, Vera was mortified. The soft knock had made her expect her mother or Lisha. What was the Councillor doing here?

“Oh, hello, Councillor Gádden.” She ran nervous fingers through her frazzled, unwashed hair. She must look a fright, lazing here on the rumpled bed beside the sleeping baby, wearing a fleece jacket and track pants that she’d borrowed from Lisha.

She had no hard feelings toward Gersha, but she barely knew him, and he’d always been so well mannered and _impeccable_, as if he belonged in the Sector at all times. Not the person she wanted to see so soon after dealing with Tollsha.

“Sit down, please.” She should probably move from the bed to the armchair, like a civilized person receiving a guest, but she wanted to watch Ceill’s chest rise and fall with each breath. He alone made everything worth it.

At least the baby’s presence had kept Tollsha from shouting at her. He’d hissed hostile questions with burning eyes—_What were you thinking? How’s that even possible?—_and then he’d cried, which was somehow worse.

Gersha sat down. When he looked at Ceill, his whole face lit up, eyes bright and lips parted. Vera felt herself mirroring the expression. Maybe this conversation wouldn’t be a trial after all—it was so nice to see people reacting to her son as they ought.

“Thank you for letting Tilrey introduce the two of us earlier,” Gersha said in a hushed voice. “It must be hard to let the little one out of your sight.”

“It is.” But if Gersha wasn’t angry, didn’t feel betrayed, why was he even here? “How long have you known?” she asked, feeling stupid.

“Uh. A while.” Gersha was picking at a loose thread in the upholstery. “I didn’t read your message, I promise. Tilrey showed it to me.”

He seemed so earnest that Vera almost felt sorry for him. “I guess you two don’t have secrets.”

“Not really.” Gersha scrubbed a hand through his dark curls. “Not anymore. Forgive me if I’m less than articulate, Vera. I didn’t sleep last night, and the travel, and—well, anyway, downstairs, I ran into your husband. He’s a bit indisposed—actually, he’s plastered. He blurted out something about what happened up here. The conditions he tried to impose on you. How you reacted.”

Vera stiffened all over. _Mortifying. _“I’m so sorry you had to see that. I hope you’ll keep being discreet. I know this whole affair is a mess, but my mother—”

“No, no! That’s not why I’m here at all.” Gersha had gone beet red. “I hope you’ll consider me a friend, and it’s not your mother I want to talk to. I’m actually here because—well, because I want to propose marriage. To you.”

The words didn’t register at first. Then Vera laughed—to her own ears, it was a half-hysterical squawk. “As you may have noticed, I’m already married. For better or worse.”

Gersha was red to the tips of his ears now. “Marriages can be dissolved. And, if Tollsha’s current attitude is anything to go by, a speedy visit to Records might spare you both much future pain.”

Vera couldn’t deny that, but the rest didn’t make sense. “And then what? I marry you, and we register my son as . . . yours?”

Gersha nodded with so much of that heart-rending earnestness that she regretted laughing at him. “I know it’s a stretch. I’m not exactly known for sleeping with women, let alone impregnating them. But consider this: We have a fair bit in common. Our proud families, for one thing.”

“What else?” Vera asked warily. _We’re both in love with Tilrey Bronn._

If Gersha was thinking that, he didn’t say it. “Both of us are bound to men who exhibit a certain . . . how shall I put this? Sexual promiscuity.”

It was Vera’s turn to blush. She didn’t care who knew Tollsha was sleeping around. But for Gersha to mention so casually that Tilrey did it, too, as if Vera were no different from whomever else he’d fallen into bed with (and how many were there?)—well. That hurt a bit.

She reminded herself sternly of her conversation with her mother. _This family has a debt of honor to pay. _And hadn’t Tilrey made it crystal-clear from the beginning that she was just an opportunity for him?

“I suppose,” she said. “And I suppose everybody knows we’ve both been, well, cheated on. But how does that make anyone more likely to believe we conceived a child together?”

Gersha was still playing nervously with the thread. “Sometimes people who are intimately betrayed act way out of character. They commit crimes of passion. Have reckless liaisons. So, let’s just imagine that one day you discovered your seemingly loving husband with a mistress.”

Vera didn’t have to work hard to imagine that. “And?”

“And the same day, I discovered my beloved secretary in bed with one of my colleagues. We stormed off and ran into each other by chance, both steaming mad and wanting to show our significant others we couldn’t be taken for granted.”

It sounded like a scene from one of the drama streams aimed at Laborers that Vera watched guiltily, on the sly. “That wouldn’t happen,” she pointed out. “I know what Tollsha does, and I don’t care.”

“Have you told all your friends you don’t care?”

“Of course not! I don’t talk about my private business to my school chums.” _Only my brother, and he wouldn’t tell anyone else. _She stopped short, starting to understand. “So that’s the story we’d tell. You think anyone would actually believe it?”

“Tilrey and I know how to be discreet. You didn’t know till now that I knew he’d been with you, remember? I play the role of the pathetic, clueless cuckold fairly convincingly.”

Vera wouldn’t think about what Tilrey might have told Gersha about her. That wasn’t her business. “So what happens next, after we commiserate about being betrayed? We fall into each other’s arms? One time, unpremeditated? Just to spite them both?”

A wicked smile was tugging at the corners of Gersha’s mouth. “That’s the gist. What do you think?”

Vera considered. “It’s still a stretch. But you’re right. Angry people do stupid, bizarre things.” She knew all too well that people in love did.

“So, fast-forward several months. You try to forgive Tollsha, for the baby’s sake. When you look at the genetic profile, you tell yourself it’s not true. But once your son is born, reality hits. You’re too ethical to pass him off as Tollsha’s. You’d be happy never to see me again, but I’m perfectly eligible to be your husband. So you send for me—”

Here Vera’s suspended disbelief thudded to the floor. “Ceill doesn’t look anything like you. The older he gets, the more obvious it’ll be. Even _Tollsha_ would be more plausible as the father.”

Gersha’s face fell, but clearly he’d thought of this already. “Physical traits skip generations. Without looking at a genetic profile, no one can say for sure the boy’s not mine.”

“They can guess.” And all it took was a few stray guesses to hatch a scandal.

“People would talk, yes.” Gersha’s eyes glittered conspiratorially. “People always talk in Redda. But how much does it matter? I’m a Gádden, and you’re a Linnett, and we high names have a way of creating our own reality. Think of your grandfather.”

Vera didn’t want to. But he had a point: If you were high-named, clever, and willing to brazen things out, you could live life on your own terms.

Marrying Tilrey would have stripped her of any power she had to make people accept her version of reality. But marrying Gersha would mean pooling their social credit. It wasn’t as sure a bet as staying with Tollsha, but it might, just might, be a safe nest for Ceill.

Gersha would let Ceill see his real father and grandmother—she knew that without asking. Gersha wouldn’t pester her for things she couldn’t give him. It was almost too good a solution, except for the glaring problem.

“But Ceill will be the _image_ of Tilrey. You do realize that?”

Gersha’s posture had relaxed. He must think he was getting somewhere. “With all due respect, Vera, you can’t predict how your son will look when he’s grown. And Tilrey will be nearly fifty then. How many people do you think will remember exactly how he looked at eighteen?”

_Me. I will. _She didn’t believe that age would ever blur the resemblance between Tilrey and his son, and she doubted Gersha really thought so, either.

But Ceill would spend the first eighteen years of his life in nursery and at school, among his peers. The danger of people drawing the obvious connection would be minimal. By the time her son started interacting with Upstarts in the Sector—the sort of people who _did _have all-too-intimate recollections of Tilrey—she and Gersha might have amassed enough power to shield Ceill from the consequences.

Maybe it could actually work. Maybe. Then an unpleasant thought occurred to her. “You’re not going to want more children, are you? Of your own? The way Tollsha did?”

Gersha drew himself up, elegantly scandalized. “Verdant hells, Vera. I have no intention of using you for breeding purposes. I applied for sanctioned celibacy because I can’t stand that sort of arrangement. Besides—” and here his face softened as he looked at Ceill— “I’d like to have a role in raising him, if you’re amenable. Maybe it’s presumptuous to want that, and I realize I need to earn your trust, but . . . he comes from someone I love.”

Vera found herself having two equal and opposite reactions. She wanted to scoop up Ceill and press him to her breast and snarl. _Mine. Not yours. Never yours. _And she wanted to hug Gersha and thank him for seeing that her son was indeed the most perfect child in the Northern Hemisphere.

If only Tilrey felt the same. The way he looked at Ceill struck Vera as reserved, even ambivalent. If she weren’t so happy, it would have made her miserable.

He had his reasons, some of them good ones. She knew that. She just wasn’t sure what to do with the tears pooling in her eyes.

“We’ll see, I guess,” she said. “You’d keep living with Tilrey, I assume.”

Gersha nodded. “We won’t be in your way any more than you want us to be.”

“Tilrey may not want to be around us at all.” Now there was a lump in her throat, and Ceill was opening his eyes and fussing. But it had to be said. “He didn’t want this.”

Gersha was blinking back tears, too. “Before I came here to you, I asked his permission, and he gave it. But I don’t think it’s that simple. Showing his feelings never is, for him.”

_Oh, but it is simple. _Tilrey had clearly expressed how he felt about this, time after time.

“But _you _want this,” Vera said, the strangeness of it all dawning on her. “How can you want it? I mean, Tilrey really did betray you. That part won’t be a lie.” She glanced from Ceill’s deep blue eyes to Gersha’s tense sea-green ones and back. “Won’t you always look at Ceill and think of . . . well, you know?”

“No,” Gersha said. He rose and stood before her, stiff and awkward and achingly sincere. “It doesn’t bother me what happened between you and Tilrey because I love him.”

He looked straight at her, so close she could see the gray flecks in his irises. “And I know him. Tilrey does all sorts of things for all sorts of reasons that I don’t always agree with. But ‘betray’ me? He’s not capable of it. Any more than I’m capable of betraying him.”

Something caught in Vera’s throat. _So that’s what love is._

What she’d felt for Tilrey suddenly seemed like a bored child’s play-acting. She remembered the flickering lights of the winter festival, the deceptive turns of the maze. It was all just a distraction. Her child’s tiny, smooth palm against her finger—that was real.

She would do anything for Ceill. Maybe it was the same with the two of them.

“So,” she said, “we’ll just have to tolerate each other, I guess. I think we can. Better than Tollsha and I could, anyway.” Already she was finding Gersha’s presence oddly restful, something she’d never expected. He reminded her a little of Valgund. “Do you want to tell my mother, or shall I?”

“Do you think she’ll object?”

Vera considered. “She’ll have the same concerns I did. I know she wanted to make it work with Tollsha. She has some weird sentimental thing about his dead dad. But she knows you, and she likes you. That counts for a lot.”

Gersha extended his hand to her, a smile transforming his face. “Then maybe we should tell her together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got some short-ish chapter coming up, so I'm going to try to post a little faster. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> And big thank you to mugi_says_eep for giving me the idea of Gersha being the key to this! In my ancient head-canon, Dal and Tilrey were already married and both living in Redda, so they became Ceill's official parents. He bonded with Dal and then Vera sort of appropriated him when he was older and OUCH. It seemed like something that would really mess up a kid (coupled with the whole social system), and I didn't know where to go from there with Ceill's between-two-worlds character. This way I hope at least to avoid traumatizing him until he's old enough to handle it. ): And I like the idea of Gersha being a dad. :)


	23. The Duel

When Gersha finally returned to the suite, the lights were out, and Tilrey’s breathing was deep and even in the dark. Gersha tiptoed to the bathroom, undressed, and slipped into bed beside his husband.

He kept distance between them, not wanting to wake Tilrey. But after a few minutes the mattress shifted. Strong arms wrapped around him, and warm breath caressed his ear. “Did Vera say yes?”

Gersha nodded, his pulse racing at the touch. “You need your sleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Don’t mind. It’s afternoon now, I think. Is it afternoon?”

A broad palm moved over Gersha’s stomach, under his T-shirt, stroking up the line of dark hair there. Gersha arced into the touch. “I think so. That tickles.”

Tilrey kissed him behind the ear. “Does this tickle?” Hardness pressed against Gersha’s thigh—not demanding, just there. Before he could stop himself, Gersha was pressing back, feeling the dark thrum of his own arousal.

Tilrey said in a soft growl, “I want you to take me again the way you did at the base. Be rough, like you own me. I want to hear you say you own me.”

Gersha felt so many things he couldn’t speak. Hearing _I want _from Tilrey was still rare and always welcome. What they’d done in the rickety bunk at the base had been _good_.

But right now he wasn’t in the mood to degrade the person he loved. He was still glowing from the sight of Ceill’s face and the light in Ceill’s eyes, and he wanted to thank Tilrey for making all that possible. He wanted to hug him.

Even if Tilrey hadn’t wanted any of it to happen.

“I’d like to give you that, love,” he said, rolling over to face Tilrey. “But another time. I should have asked you before—how bad was it, with Tollsha? When I found him, he was into a sloppy-drunk phase. Did he lash out at you?”

The languid arousal on Tilrey’s face vanished like a slate being wiped clean, but he didn’t pull away. “We didn’t say a word to each other. Vera and Albertine must have given Tollsha dire warnings not to engage. But the way he looked at me—honestly, I wish they’d just let him do his worst.”

He began to tremble, pressing his face against Gersha’s hair. “I wish he had come at me. I wish he’d clipped me on the jaw and knocked me down and pounded me into the floor.”

Gersha’s throat closed as he remembered Tollsha expressing similar sentiments about Tilrey. He stroked Tilrey’s hair, the other hand petting his back as if he were a frightened animal. “You have these dark thoughts sometimes. I know you do, and you can tell me. It’s all right.”

Tilrey did tug away this time. He sat up and said in a growl, not a sensual one, “You’re always so damn understanding. I hate this. All of you high Upstarts treating me so _kindly_, like I’m an equal. Even Albertine. And my mom just nods like she thinks it’s her due.”

“Maybe it is her due.” For the first time, Gersha wondered if Lisha might be part of the True Hearth like Dal. Tilrey would know, but it wasn’t the time to ask him.

Tilrey stared into the dark. “I can’t take it—people expecting things from me. It’s too much. And then Artur saying I should be a leader—what the fuck does he know?” He hung his head and raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s too much pressure. Too much responsibility. And then you get all glowy and excited about this kid when he’s something I didn’t make happen, something that just happened _to_ me.”

“He’s not a thing,” Gersha said.

Tilrey didn’t seem to hear him. “Vera used me, Gersha. That’s how he exists. That explains everything in my life. I’m nothing. I’m only good for people to use. I _want_ to be used, even. Don’t you understand that?”

His breath was coming in sharp hitches. When Gersha took him in his arms again, making wordless, soothing sounds, he didn’t resist.

“It’s all right, love,” Gersha said under his breath, pulling Tilrey’s head onto his breast. “I’m here now, and you belong to me, and you can do anything you like. I’m taking charge of things. I’ll be in charge from now on.”

_We both know I’ll only be in charge until you pull yourself back together. Just for an hour here and there. Just for a night._

When Tilrey had pulled himself back together, when he was wearing his competent political mask again, Gersha would tell him about the conversation in the basement with Dal. Tilrey had to know, because the True Hearth might greet him on his return to Redda with a genuine interrogation about their trip north.

And Tilrey would be ready, because yes, he was the one in charge now. They both knew it. He’d wrangled the intel from Artur. He would handle their touchy relations with the True Hearth—and increasingly, if Gersha had his way, their political schemes in the Sector, too.

Tilrey was perfectly competent to write the speeches and plan the strategy—he was already doing most of it. Gersha would keep sitting in Council sessions, of course. But, if Vera allowed it, he might reduce his workload to take Ceill home once or twice every ten-day.

A new life blossomed in Gersha’s imagination—Ceill’s life, but also his own. When Ceill got older, he could fetch the boy from school on alternate free-nights and sit with him in the living room, helping him with his homework while they waited for Tilrey to come home for his tea and dinner. _Your father is a brilliant man, _Gersha would tell Ceill. _I’m proud of him, and you should be, too._

Maybe it was time for Gersha to slow down and watch life unfold. What had Duke Dalziel said about enjoying life’s fleeting pleasures? He’d spent so much of his life taking tests and writing code and trying to achieve things when Tilrey could easily achieve enough for both of them.

And would. Whatever his husband might say in this low moment, Gersha knew Tilrey had a fire in his breast. Whatever he’d learned from Artur on that harsh trek into the mountains, he would figure out how to use it. He would steer the dawning rebellion—with Gersha’s counsel, of course—and keep it from becoming violent or excessive. He had the insight and the empathy to bring disparate factions together. He would make things work.

They lay like that, Gersha rubbing Tilrey’s back in small circles and then just holding him, until sleep came for them.

***

Tollsha woke from a deep sleep with a raging hangover.

He hauled himself up, showered—cursing the water pressure in this shithole of a room they’d given him—and tugged on his clothes. Buckled his tunic, fastened the collar to the top. He was still a Councillor, and he was getting out of this nuthouse as soon as possible.

Before he finally crashed, he’d endured a long conference with Albertine and Gersha in which they all agreed on the story they would tell when they returned to Redda. Tollsha could barely stay awake through it, but he wasn’t worried about forgetting anything. He had a knack for telling stories, including ones that weren’t true.

He would roll his eyes as he told people how his wife had flipped out when she discovered him in bed with one of his special friends (what did she expect? She was a lousy lay). How she had run off craving payback and fucked the first man she saw. How that man was a sanctioned celibate who’d probably never gotten it up for a woman in his life. (He’d pause here to grimace at Gersha’s sexual prowess and nudge his interlocutor.) And, wouldn’t you know, Vera and this “celibate” managed to conceive. One night. One fuck. The irony.

Tollsha would pretend to be ashamed (the dishonor!). But it was a good story, and he would tell it with likable self-deprecation, and nobody would end up thinking it was his fault. People would pat him on the back and commiserate.

He could think of a few eligible women who might even take their commiseration into the bedroom. _Poor Tollsha, how could she? Doesn’t she know what she’s giving up? _Before long, Tollsha might have some bouncing, pink-cheeked brats of his own to show off.

Vera and Gersha were welcome to each other. They could be grim-faced and rational and earnest all day to their hearts’ content.

As he swung his overnight bag over his shoulder and left the Drudge room forever, Tollsha imagined the pair of them gathered with the baby in Vera’s apartment for a formal family dinner. Would they eat in silence, a matching set of stick-in-the-muds? Would they compete for Tilrey’s attention? Or would Tilrey be off seducing someone else?

Who gave a fuck? The important thing was, Tollsha wouldn’t have to be there. Striding down the corridor, back toward the transport and his vacation villa and the world of Upstarts, he was _free._

He stopped short at the sight of Tilrey directly in his way.

He was waiting for the lift, his face turned away from Tollsha, a small heap of backpacks and duffels beside him. He was alone.

All of a sudden, Tollsha understood that he wasn’t free after all. Not quite. Not yet. Something had been nagging at him.

“On your way out?” he asked in a loud, cheerful voice.

Tilrey didn’t jump, only swung around. He looked tired. “Fir Councillor’s saying a few goodbyes before we get the shuttle to Redda, Fir,” he said with a bob of his head. “You too?”

Making small talk. Showing deference. Like it could all be smoothed over with a few polite words.

Tollsha swallowed. “I want to hit you,” he said.

Tilrey’s brows shot upward.

“I want to hit you,” Tollsha repeated, “and then I want you to hit me back, so it’s fair. Okay?”

He took a step closer, already aching to punch those perfectly composed features out of alignment. He hadn’t realized it until this moment, but only one thing could redeem this whole sorry episode in his life; only one thing could make him _him _again, and this was it. But it couldn’t be one-sided. “You have to _promise _to hit me back.”

One golden brow was still arched. “I’m not going to hit you, Fir,” Tilrey said calmly. “You could bring charges against me.”

Tollsha swung the bag off his shoulder. His fists positively itched with eagerness. But Tilrey had a point—punching was serious business. When Tollsha was fourteen, he’d brawled at recess and landed a solid one on Andreas Krigorin’s cheekbone and ended up in the emergency clinic with a broken hand. Since then, he’d mostly stayed out of the fray.

“Flat of the hand only, then,” he said, feeling a dancing eagerness in his legs. “I’m not looking to maul your pretty face.”

Something slipped in Tilrey’s expression, the usual composure peeling away to reveal a disquieting blankness. “Okay, Fir,” he said.

Tollsha had to do this right. He couldn’t put a bruise on Tilrey’s cheek and walk away, the way Uncle had so many times. “You have to promise first,” he said between gritted teeth. “To reciprocate. I won’t be calling any Constables, believe me. How would I explain to them?”

Tilrey just looked at him. Then he said, “If that’s what you really want, yeah. I promise.”

The whole thing took a few seconds. Before Tollsha’s brain had given the go-ahead, his body went for its release, his hand flashing out to make contact with Tilrey’s jaw and left cheekbone. Then he was staggering backward, his palm stinging from the impact, watching Tilrey stumble back in his turn.

Tilrey found his footing quickly enough, though, and he didn’t hesitate. A blur of motion, a whistle of movement in the air, a sharp _crack_. Then Tollsha was the one whose knees were buckling.

The blow had been so quick it barely registered as an experience. But Tollsha felt the outline of a heavy palm on his own left cheek and the side of his nose, and it hurt like hell. He was marked now.

His back met the wall, and he sat down heavily. “Shit. Am I bleeding?”

Tilrey shook his head, an indistinct blur looming over him. “Did I overdo it?”

Tollsha brought his hand up and gingerly palpated his nose and cheek. No blood, but he could swear he was numb in one spot, and the rest of it tingled. “You’re strong,” he said ruefully. Hadn’t he known that all along?

“You sure you’re okay, Fir?”

Tilrey extended a hand. After a moment, Tollsha accepted it and allowed himself to be tugged to his feet. “Just knocked the wind out of me,” he said. “You look like I barely tapped you.”

“You landed a good one.”

“Really?” But of course, Tollsha thought as they stood side by side again. Tilrey knew how to take a blow and not wobble or change expression. He had more practice than Tollsha did.

And now Tilrey was actually smiling as if the whole thing were a joke. “It’ll be a real shiner. I won’t have fun explaining that to Gersha.”

“No, you won’t, huh?” The lift dinged, and Tollsha stuck out his hand. “Well, guess I’m off. Slightly worse for wear.”

Tilrey offered his own hand palm down for Tollsha to clasp, like the good Drudge he was or was pretending to be. But that wouldn’t do, not today.

Tollsha flipped the hand over and clasped it palm to palm like an equal. “Point to you, lad,” he said. “You got the better of us all. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

As the lift doors opened, Tilrey looked straight at Tollsha. The redness on his jawline was already starting to darken. “It’s not what I wanted,” he said. “None of it.”

For an instant, Tollsha wanted to hit him again, promises be damned. But he could see from Tilrey’s face that he wasn’t just copping an attitude. He meant what he said.

Tilrey didn’t care that he’d inserted his Drudge genes into an irreproachable bloodline, shoving Tollsha out of the way. He didn’t _care_. Imagine not caring. Imagine just being whoever you wanted to be and doing whatever you wanted to do.

“Does Vera know that?” Tollsha asked before he could stop himself.

Tilrey nodded.

Maybe, in a dark and shameful corner of his brain, Tollsha had been envying Gersha and Vera and Tilrey their little arrangement, their easy agreement. He must have been, because now he was suddenly acutely aware that he didn’t envy them after all.

“Well,” he said, hauling his bag onto his shoulder and stepping into the lift. “Whatever you three have going on, I think I’m well enough out of it. Good luck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it was more like a small slap-fight with rules than a duel. But this is Oslov, not the Tangle. ;)


	24. The Second Bond

The ceremony took place in one of hundreds of interchangeable little rooms in the vast Hall of Records. The walls were white plaster; the skylight showed midwinter blackness. The officiant was waiting when Gersha and Tilrey arrived: a middle-aged Laborer judicial clerk who looked like she was eager to get somewhere else.

“Ah,” she said. “You’re the eighteen-thirty? Gádden/Linnett?”

Gersha turned to look at Tilrey, the wide eyes damp with something that might have been a question: _Do you want me to back out?_ _I still can._ Tilrey answered with a tiny shake of his head_._

Before either of them could speak, Vera, her mother, and the baby arrived. Albertine clasped Tilrey’s hand palm-to-palm, her smile fading as she spotted the still-livid bruise on his jaw. “What happened?” she asked, her eyes darting to Gersha and back.

Gersha only scowled as if to say, _Search me_.

On their flight back to Redda, Tilrey had had a hell of a time convincing his husband not to go and yell at Tollsha, whose face probably looked just as bad. “Why would you agree to that?” Gersha kept asking, Tilrey’s hands clasped between his. His voice broke, and Tilrey read a message in his eyes: _If you insist on having someone hurt you, at least come to someone you trust._

But it hadn’t been like that. Tilrey had tried to explain: “In the olden days, in the Tangle, men used to have duels over matters of honor. Sometimes they fought to the death, but sometimes they were content just to draw their enemy’s blood and shake hands.”

Now he gave Albertine his best smile. “It’s nothing serious, Fir’n. How has Ceill been?”

Albertine accepted the change of subject with a skeptical frown. “He bawled through the flight, but he’s adjusting well to his new home. Vera’s taking a leave from the Bureau while I do the legwork to secure her appointment as Admin of Sector Six. She plans to be very hands-on in the position.” She grinned, reminding him silently that Vera would have an excuse to visit Lisha whenever she chose.

It was a good arrangement, Tilrey told himself. His mother deserved time with Ceill, and she and Vera actually seemed to get along. He just hoped the boy didn’t end up confused about who he was.

He wanted his son to be an Upstart and to have no doubts about his status. Not as a matter of pride or merit or prestige, but for safety.

“Excuse me, Fir’n.” It was the officiant, who had a crown of iron-gray braids and an iron voice to match. “Are you expecting other attendees?”

“Not us, no.” Albertine turned to Gersha. “Just the two of you?”

Gersha nodded breezily, and Tilrey knew he was trying not to show anything this sham of a ceremony made him feel. “No living grandparents on my side, I’m afraid.”

“And any previous union has been . . . dissolved?” The woman’s voice lowered. Her superior must have shown her the paperwork that Vera and Tollsha had filed a few days ago, but she was still obligated to request verbal confirmation.

“Yes,” Vera said.

Gersha looked at the floor. “My celibacy has been rescinded,” he said.

Tilrey felt a lump in his throat and told himself he was being absurd. Oslov formalities meant nothing to them anymore.

“Come along then, Fir, Fir’n.” The officiant tugged a long bloodred ribbon from the front pocket of her smock. Red for Upstarts, blue for Laborers, just like the icons on their ID chips. “Couple to the front, please.”

It was over quickly, just as Tilrey and Gersha’s ceremony had been. But what a difference. Now Tilrey stood to one side beside Albertine, who held the swaddled, sleeping Ceill in her arms. Together they watched as the officiant bound Gersha and Vera’s hands with the ribbon.

Her voice was a practiced drone. “Ernst Gerhard Gádden, do you affirm your bond of lifelong partnership with this woman, Vera Nelmira Linnett? Do you give her your hand in love and fellowship and vow to support your joint endeavors until your last moment?”

“Until my last moment, I am yours,” Gersha said in a flat voice. No improvised additions this time.

“Vera Nelmira Linnett, do you affirm your bond of lifelong partnership . . .”

Tilrey’s mind wandered. This was their sixth day back in Redda, and he hadn’t heard anything from the True Hearth. If he didn’t soon, he might have to seek them out.

_It’s all for you, this rebellion_, he thought, gazing at his son’s tiny, peaceful face. At least, Gersha clearly believed so. And if he had that kind of faith, maybe Tilrey could, too.

Gersha would probably want to tell Ceill who his real father was as soon as they could trust him to keep a secret, but Tilrey hoped to persuade him and Vera to wait. Let the boy grow up thinking he was the heir to two elite bloodlines. As long as revolution was still a plan or a dream, Ceill would need all the confidence he could get.

_My son, a Linnett. The Linnett heir. _Sometimes the wrongness of the notion made hairs prickle on the back of Tilrey’s neck. Sometimes he almost liked it. He wondered what Vera and Albertine had told Vera’s father, who was notably absent from the ceremony. The man had always been convinced that Tilrey wanted nothing more than to “dishonor” his family. Perhaps it had been a self-fulfilling prophecy.

As for Malsha, he would probably just laugh if he knew. Laugh like it was the best joke he’d ever heard.

The officiant unwound the ribbon and let it fall to the cold tile floor. Vera and Gersha unclasped their hands and stepped apart—rather too quickly, Tilrey thought. He might need to give them some rudimentary lessons in acting like a couple.

The officiant turned to Tilrey and Albertine. “Let the bond be witnessed.”

“Let the bond be witnessed,” they recited together. Woken by the noise, Ceill began to bawl.

***

The True Hearth came to Tilrey as he took the lift back up to Gersha’s office in Government Sector. In the press of people, someone jostled his back. A small hand grabbed hold of his, closed his fingers over what felt like a scrap of paper, and released him.

Tilrey stayed still, showing no surprise. He clamped the note against his palm.

At the next stop, he watched, keeping his gaze casual, as the messenger slithered out from behind him. A young, slight, sober-faced Drudge whose smock suggested an office-support position, someone he was fairly sure he’d seen in these corridors before. She exited the lift without a glance at those entering—who, as it happened, included Besha.

Besha didn’t dignify the girl with a glance. “Is it true?” he whispered, pressing in beside Tilrey as the doors closed. “Today in Records? _Really_?”

They were alone in the lift now except for a functionary who was busy on his handheld. “You must have spies everywhere, Fir Councillor.”

“It’s my business to know things, Secretary.” Besha shot a wary look at the functionary. “We need to talk, soon. Are you meeting Gersha upstairs?”

Tilrey shook his head. “The Councillor is having a family dinner at home, Fir.”

It was customary to hold a family meal after a marriage or birth, new relations kneeling to eat around the same table. Gersha had wanted Tilrey there, but Tilrey pointed out his presence would look odd. Right now, they didn’t need to attract more attention.

More importantly, he didn’t particularly want to make chit-chat with the woman who had just married his husband. He was glad when Albertine agreed it was prudent for him to stay away.

“There’ll be other dinners,” she’d assured Gersha, patting his arm maternally. “You’ll have Ceill at least one free-night a month, and more often as he gets older. It’s only natural for him to see his father.”

Whether Albertine meant his legal father or his biological father, she didn’t say—deliberately, Tilrey suspected. It was in the Linnetts’ interest to encourage Gersha to develop paternal feelings for Ceill, not that Gersha needed encouragement.

Tilrey had seen how his husband looked at the infant—with pure, unreserved love. Vera must have noticed it, too; she’d been warmer and more relaxed with Gersha after the ceremony than Tilrey expected. They might make a plausible family after all, if an eccentric one_._

Besha was fidgeting, desperate to be in the know. “I’m bound home to my own family shortly. But tomorrow night? My place?”

For the bystander’s benefit, Tilrey smiled as if they were flirting. “If you’re nice to me, Fir Councillor.”

The lift deposited them on their floor. In the depopulated corridor, Besha pulled Tilrey into an alcove and stood on tiptoe to whisper again, pretending to nuzzle amorously at his ear for the cameras’ benefit. “You need to update me on the other thing, too,” he hissed. “My daughter needs protection, and I want my sauna.”

The man was incorrigible. It was almost a relief to deal with someone so simple and selfish for a change. Tilrey unwound Besha’s arm from his waist, keeping a firm grip on the message in his palm. “Your needs are my highest priority, Fir Councillor. Tomorrow at eight, then.”

“Seven,” Besha wheedled.

Tilrey needed to work late tomorrow; there were so many matters demanding Gersha’s (_his_) attention. “Eight,” he said.

The tone made Besha blink in surprise. “Eight, then. I expect a _full _report.” With a final wink at Tilrey, he traipsed off down the corridor.

Tilrey’s body caught up with what had just happened and tensed as if bracing for a blow. He had said no to an Upstart. Without even making an excuse.

Granted, Besha was safe. The two of them were almost as informal as he and Gersha now. Still, they’d been in public, and he should have been more on his guard. He couldn’t let himself slip, couldn’t develop a reputation for being insolent or difficult or even assertive. Not just for his own sake or the True Hearth’s, but for his son’s, Councillors needed to _like_ him.

Alone in Gersha’s office suite, he opened his hand and read the message. Tiny, meticulous print said: _Tonight, 21h, outside Research Collections_. _Wear coat_.

Tilrey shredded the message. He had to admit, saying no to an Upstart, even in such an off-hand way, felt good.

***

Research Collections was on the third of the Library’s four subterranean levels. No one hung around there this late except the occasional obsessive University scholar—and Tilrey himself, back in the days when the Library was his refuge. The stacks were open all night. On evenings when he wasn’t wanted in a Councillor’s bed, he’d sometimes haunted the dusty aisles as late as he dared, seeking out the remotest spots.

Now he opened a botanical dictionary, but he barely saw the text entries and pictures. His body pulsed with leftover adrenaline, and it took him a moment to remember why—that tiny implicit no. He’d wanted one thing, and Besha had wanted another, and he’d drawn a line.

As acts of self-assertion went, it was trivial, yet clearly it wasn’t. Tilrey tried to recall another instance when he’d been openly contrary to any Upstart but Gersha. Men still came on to him with regularity. Surely he’d been blunt with at least a few? Aside from that cursed episode with Bors Dartán, he couldn’t think of a single time. It was easier and safer to offer coy excuses.

Even when he hit Tollsha, he’d merely been complying with an Upstart’s whim. But that had felt good, almost as good as saying no. If being hit made his adrenaline spike with a weirdly pleasant intensity, hitting back gave the surplus energy an outlet. It balanced the equation.

Tilrey didn’t plan to make a habit of hitting people, but now and then he savored the memory of Tollsha staggering backward and sitting down, shocked by the force of his blow. It made him feel . . . sated.

Light footsteps echoed in the half-lit vastness, and Tilrey turned to find the Laborer girl from the lift. Now dressed in hospital scrubs and a fleece, she had features that were delicate and boyish at once, but her most striking attribute was a flat, unimpressed stare.

“Follow a few paces behind,” she said, walking on past.

Tilrey knew better than to ask questions while they were still under the eyes of the cameras. He followed her down a flight of stairs. A roundabout course through the stacks led to a door marked _Staff_, which the girl unlocked. From there they proceeded through a crowded, dusty storage space to a smaller door marked _Fire Exit_.

This gave onto a long, low-ceilinged concrete corridor that smelled of frozen earth. Lights flickered to life at their approach, but Tilrey spotted no cameras. He understood now why he’d been told to wear his coat; the place was freezing. “Where the hell are we?” he asked as they walked side by side.

“In the Shadow City.” The girl seemed amused by his confusion. “Some underground parts of Redda are well known; others, not so much. This particular one takes us from the Library all the way into the basement of the Sanctioned Brothel.”

So he was going to see Irin at last. “I thought the Sanctioned Brothel was basically quarantined from the rest of the Inner Ring. Only one way in or out.”

_The whores there are guarded like convicts, _Verán’s driver had told Tilrey once. _They need day passes to see their families. Be grateful you’re not one of them. _People were always telling him to be grateful he was a kettle boy and not a Brothel boy, Upstarts and fellow Drudges alike.

The corridor branched, and they turned right into pitch-darkness. The girl produced a penlight that swept the gloom. “Shows how much you know about the Sanctioned,” she said. “It’s one of the few institutions in this damn city where Strutters aren’t constantly watching you, and there are always other ways out. Stay close. We’re almost there.”

He followed her thin beam to the outline of a door, where she handed him the light. “Hold that for me.”

Tilrey shone the light on a padlock while she inserted the key. “What’s your name? Or am I not allowed to know?”

“You might as well; you’ll see me in the Sector. Sibylla Ilskund.” She swung the door open on darkness. “I work for Councillor Linden. We’re second cousins, too, not that he wants anyone to know it.”

So this was one of Tollsha’s Laborer relations. Tilrey followed the light beam up three steep steps and into a space that felt enormous, their steps resounding. In the distance, a yellowish caged light showed him a concrete pillar and part of a lofty archway. He wanted to know if Sibylla suspected anything about his recent troubles with Tollsha, but before he could ask, he banged into something hard—a crate, by the feel.

“Shit!” He retreated and hit another hard surface, feeling the impact in his shoulder and hip.

“Careful,” Sibylla said. “It’s storage here.”

A man’s familiar voice echoed across the space: “The dead could hear you coming.”

At last, Irin. His heart thudding in anticipation, Tilrey kept as close as he could to Sibylla until they reached a small area cleared of boxes and washed by the yellow light, under the giant pillar. They must be up against one wall of the basement. To his left, he saw a garage door and the unearthly glow of a smokehole cave sculpted into the vast snowdrifts outside. The whole place had an earthy, mineral smell, machinery humming nearby.

That would be the building’s boiler, Tilrey supposed, fueled by the city’s wind- and solar-powered grid. If someone suddenly switched off that grid, what would happen? Backup generators couldn’t handle the burden of a city locked in arctic midwinter.

“Ah, Tilrey Bronn.” Irin Dartán lounged full-length on a torn, dingy sofa. He indicated a dilapidated armchair as if he and Tilrey were meeting by chance in the Café. “Sit. About time we had a chat, right?”

“I thought so, too.” Tilrey bypassed the armchair in favor of a metal folding chair. “I gather from my friends in Thurskein that you have some interest in my trip to the north.”

Sibylla settled herself in the armchair, unsmiling. Irin, by contrast, looked positively sociable as he produced a vial of sap. “Night-cap?”

They both shook their heads. Irin unstoppered the vial, inserted his pinky, and licked it. “I thought you might want to celebrate, since you just came from a wedding.”

The comment was clearly intended as a barb, but Tilrey felt nothing. “News travels fast.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Irin took another nip of sap. “But your private affairs of the heart aren’t my business . . . well, until they very much are. Tell me, Tilrey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing with Councillor Linbeck?”

Tilrey’s breath caught; he hadn’t expected an attack from this direction. Had Besha been uncharacteristically stupid?

He managed to keep his voice and face neutral. “What I’ve always been doing. Using Linbeck to support a push for reform in the Council.”

Irin’s eyes glittered beneath lowered lids. “You wouldn’t happen to have told him about your other agenda?”

_Shit. _How on earth did they know? But since they apparently did, he had no choice but to be honest. “He figured it out for himself.”

Irin’s voice was ice cold now. “And how did that happen, exactly?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split this one on a cliffhanger, but the next chapter will be up in a few days. We're approaching the end of this story, which has stretched longer than I ever expected, but that's par for the course. :) These last chapters will have some setup for what comes next. Thanks so much for reading, commenting, kudo-ing, all of it! <3


	25. The Big Picture

“I’m going to need to start from the beginning,” Tilrey said. “Besha would never have found out about us if Gersha hadn’t found out first. But I suppose you know all about Gersha and what happened in Harbour.”

Irin Dartán inclined his head to one side, his expression as unforgivingly blank as a snowfield. “Ranek Egil briefed me, yes. But I want you to tell the whole mess in your own words, my friend.”

The cold of the Sanctioned Brothel’s basement pressed around them as Tilrey told the story as economically as possible. When he described Bors Dartán’s disastrous report to Gersha, Irin broke the chilly silence with a chuckle. “Oh yes, dear cousin Bors. He’s been such a little gadfly ever since he was Raised. Would you believe he tried to enlist _me_ in proving your shirker activities?”

Tilrey did not smile. He was still ashamed of how he’d miscalculated by deciding to have some cruel fun with Bors Dartán—a part of the story he kept to himself. “Well, your cousin didn’t do the damage he hoped. Gersha’s with us now, body and soul. I can vouch for him.”

“No surprise there. He adores you, and apparently vice versa. Unless this whole business with Vera Linnett changes that?” Irin waved lazy fingers in the air. “You must have been a very naughty boy to drive that man into a woman’s arms.”

So Gersha’s absurd tale was catching on. Tilrey didn’t contradict it. “We worked everything out in Harbour,” he said, stone-faced. “The marriage is just for the kid’s sake. Vera knows nothing.”

“Good. Egil and Celinda Valde vouch for your Councillor, too. Clearly you’ve worked some sort of witchcraft on him.” Another dip of the finger in the vial. “But Linbeck, that little mercenary? How did he find out?”

Irin’s expression darkened as Tilrey related how Gersha’s slip of the tongue had set Besha on the path to Bors Dartán’s report. “But I never gave Besha your name—any name. How did you know he knew?”

“I know everything that happens in this establishment, and as you must know, men can be terribly indiscreet with their favorite bedmates. But that’s not the important thing. How are you keeping Linbeck quiet? Just with your sweet affection?”

_He’s trying to minimize me. To remind me my career as a spy started with conversations overheard in Councillors’ beds. _Tilrey steadied his breathing and reminded himself what Artur had said about being a leader. “Not solely, no,” he said. “What I have on Besha isn’t germane to our business here. What matters is that I believe he’s willing to work for us eyes open, taking orders from me. That’s actually one of the reasons I’ve been trying to get an audience with you. I want to manage him with your cooperation.”

Irin exchanged a glance with Sibylla. “I don’t mean to contradict you, Tilrey, but Councillors don’t take orders from secretaries. Ranek swears up and down that Gersha’s a man of principle, and I trust you to manage him. But Linbeck’s a different matter. He’s out for no one but himself.”

“Believe me, I know. But I have Besha under control.” Tilrey tried to sound confident. “And we can offer him incentives. He’s genuinely unhappy with the status quo. All he wants in return for his ongoing cooperation are a few absurdly small favors—and some insight into your long-term goals.” He emphasized the last words.

“That’s rather a lot,” Irin said. “How do we know he’s not going to take his ‘insight’ straight to Int/Sec?”

“Besha’s not stupid.” It was time to get to the meat of the matter. “Personally, _I’d_ like some insight into our goals, too. But you haven’t allowed me that, Irin. Lately, you haven’t even allowed me near you.”

Sibylla said, “That was for your own protection.”

Irin shot her a glance. “Tilrey knows that. He’s not stupid, either—are you, Rishka?” He swiveled his head to capture Tilrey’s gaze. “What you are is good at seizing the initiative but bad at following orders. I’m still trying to decide if that balances out in your favor.”

His eyes narrowed as he spoke, the sharp features becoming sinister. For the first time, it occurred to Tilrey that he might have walked into a trap. No one else knew he was here. If Irin thought he represented a genuine threat, there were ways to dispose of him down here in the dark.

_Calm. Breathe. _They needed him. “One of my ‘initiatives’ was to secure the opening of a garrison in Harbour. You’ll have the opportunity to staff it with soldiers handpicked for loyalty to you.”

Irin arched a brow. “Fair enough. But, to be frank with you, we’re still struggling to recruit in the armed forces.”

“Maybe soldiers like to know where their orders are coming from.” Tilrey glanced between them. Was it time to bring out the heavy artillery? “I’m happy to tell you why I traveled north and what I learned there. But first I need to know whose orders I’m following and where all these orders are leading. Without that—” He shrugged. “I might as well be stumbling around in the dark.”

Irin said, “You aren’t ready to know.”

But a new voice, close by and oddly muffled, contradicted him: “The boy’s right.”

A harsh grating of steel against concrete made Tilrey swing toward the pillar. A panel had sprung open there, revealing an alcove just large enough to conceal someone. A hunched form pushed it from the inside, panting, and stepped out onto the floor.

“For green’s sake,” Irin said. “This wasn’t the plan.”

“I want to speak to him face to face.” The newcomer was slight and further shrunken by age, with a wide-jawed, bulbous-eyed face that reminded Tilrey of the small amphibians he’d seen croaking in puddles in Harbour. She reminded him of something else, too, that made his stomach twist queasily, but he wasn’t sure what.

With a dignity that belied her appearance, she walked over to examine him. “Do you remember me, lad? From that night?”

Her throaty, jaded voice brought it all back in a flood. Blood rushed to Tilrey’s head, making his vision swim. _That _night.

He saw an old woman rising from a desk to look him up and down, her only reaction a raised brow. _Oh yes, he’ll do. _Then she was scribbling in a ledger. Turning to a cabinet behind her, bringing out folded clothes. _Irin—where you are, Irin? Get this one showered and changed for me. Give his fancy clothes back to the Fir’s driver. I think we can put him in Hall C with the birthday party._

Tilrey dug nails into his palms. That night was twelve years gone, and he wouldn’t let its filthy, suffocating tide pull him under. He would not panic. He would breathe.

When he spoke, he sounded calm. “You managed the officers’ club when Irin worked there. When I . . . was there. You’re his aunt, aren’t you?” He turned to Irin. “This is your leader? Someone who arranges gang rapes on a professional basis?”

Irin flinched at that, but the old woman smiled. “Hulda Dartán,” she said, extending a withered hand. “My title these days is director of the Sanctioned Brothel. We try not to host rapes between these walls if we can help it.”

Tilrey kept his hands at his sides. “I wonder how hard you really try.”

Irin was fidgeting. “We can’t squabble over ancient history, Tilrey. Whoever checked you into that hellhole, an Upstart sent you there to crush your spirit. Upstarts put us all there. Upstarts built the brothels in the first place, for _their_ needs.” He gestured wildly into the dark. “We’re all the same. We all have the same cause. I’m not sure you grasp that.”

“Irin. Enough.” Hulda turned to Tilrey again. “You know, when we first met, I didn’t think you’d last long. I’ve seen other lads who were trafficked or forced into the life. They usually end up drowning themselves in sap so they won’t have to feel anything.”

“I’m still here. I don’t need your compliments.”

“I imagine not. But what do you need, Tilrey? Or what do you _want_?” She peered at him through the half-light. “Whatever it is, I suppose you’re used to getting it with that pretty face and heroic physique of yours—and those shining eyes and clever words, too. Oh yes.” A glance at Irin. “I see why you keep him at a distance, nephew. He looks like he should be playing your role.”

Irin’s laugh sounded strangled. “I’m not _jealous _of him.”

“I didn’t say you were. But he cuts a nice figure, doesn’t he? People would trust him who wouldn’t trust you or me.”

“Because he looks like an Upstart,” Sibylla said. Her voice was lazy, but her gaze, as she turned it on Tilrey, conveyed something like hate. “People trust Strutters and want them to lead. Even Drudges do. It’s not a conscious thing. We’ve all been brainwashed.”

Hulda said, “I trust no one, lass. Not even my family. That’s how I’ve survived.” She shot another meaningful glance at Irin before turning to Tilrey. “So if you’re hoping to charm me, young man, think again. You’re in over your head—anyone can see that. That said, I know what a corruptible little rodent Councillor Linbeck is. I’ve heard how he ran that weapons depot in the Wastes. When I learned of his election, I practically expected the Council Chamber to collapse on his head in protest.”

Tilrey enjoyed the mental image. “It probably should have.”

“Should have collapsed on _all _of them,” Irin muttered.

Hulda’s smile was cold. “So yes, I believe you can manage Linbeck. He wouldn’t have kept quiet this long if you didn’t have a dagger at his throat. Tell him I’ll grant these ‘absurdly small favors’ he wants—_if_ he’ll connect me with his equally corrupt friends in the military. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask.”

Tilrey realized he’d been holding his breath and released it. For the first time, he felt himself in the presence of someone who might actually bring down the Republic of Oslov. There was no rhetoric, idealism, or petty resentment in Hulda, only a bone-deep cynicism that reminded him of Malsha Linnett.

If the reminder was disturbing, it was reassuring, too. Malsha was the one who had taught him about power. On some level, he didn’t trust anyone who claimed to want anything else.

“I’ll give Linbeck the message,” he said. “But you already know what _I_ want. I want to know the big picture.”

Hulda stared straight at him. Though her eyes were pits of darkness, he felt their force like tractor beams. “First, tell me what else _you _want out of this, lad. Tell me why you’re here.”

What did he want? Tilrey thought he knew. But as he thought backward—the Southern Hearth, his fight with Gersha, his realization that Dal was a Dissident, his meetings with Egil, the terrifying darkness of the Int/Sec cell—he realized how many of his choices had been forced.

He believed in reforming the system, but he didn’t crave destruction or chaos, or even revenge. He was happiest when he could make tea and discuss Tangle books with Gersha. Free or not, his life was _good._

Now Ceill existed, though. That did change things.

“I have a son.” There was no need to offer specifics—he could easily have a bastard somewhere, or a dozen. “I don’t want him ever to be what I was. I don’t want him bought and sold. And . . . I don’t want him to treat people like tools or chattel, either.” This part was harder to voice. It made him feel as earnest and naïve as Vera. “I don’t want him to live in a world where those things happen. Does that sound absurd to you?”

He half expected Hulda to say yes, there was no society without some form of exploitation. But she just kept looking at him. “Does it sound absurd to _you_?”

“I don’t know.” He dropped his eyes, not wanting to see Irin’s or Sibylla’s expression.

“It’s your answer that matters, young man. I’m unlikely to live to see the dawn of a new Oslov.” Hulda waved away her nephew’s objection. “You know it’s true, Irin. I’ve spent my life digging like an industrious little mole under the foundations of the old Oslov, trying to topple it, but we’re still not that close. So rebuilding it will be your responsibility, you young people. Think long and hard about what you want to see in its place. Will I share our plans with you, such as they are? Yes.”

Irin asked, “You’re sure about this?”

Again Hulda waved him away. “He’s earned that much. Plans are only plans, and ours are hardly set in granite. Now, tell me, Tilrey, what were you and your Councillor doing in the north?”

Her eyes swung back to him, all the mercilessness of the Wastes in them, and this time Tilrey knew he would tell.

Hulda, Irin, and Sibylla listened first with skepticism, then with mounting interest, as he told them about the Resurgent sleeper agents who were armed with codes that just might bring Redda to its knees.

“I’ve heard rumors about backdoor codes that could take apart the city’s whole infrastructure,” Irin said. His vial was empty by that point, and he couldn’t seem to control his nerves, jiggling a knee and biting ragged nails. “But Harbourers aren’t hackers. Hell, they don’t even have electricity.”

“And we Drudges aren’t supposed to use electronics for anything but basic data entry,” Hulda pointed out. “But some of us teach ourselves to code, don’t we? Some of us even hack into the main networks.”

“So maybe these Resurgents aren’t totally clueless. But whatever intel they have, it could be decades or even centuries out of date.”

_True enough. _But the possibility was there. “Artur said these infiltrators were instructed to seduce and whore their way into Redda,” Tilrey said. “Which means that, if any made it, they could be right here in your brothel.”

Hulda seemed to take the possibility seriously. “A fair percentage of our staff aren’t born Oslov citizens. We’ll look at them closely.”

“No one jumps to mind?”

Aunt and nephew exchanged a glance. “Not at the moment,” Irin said, still fidgeting.

“But you will look?”

Hulda said, “I don’t particularly like it when my whores keep secrets from me, but it wouldn’t be the first time. You’ve brought us something of great potential value, Tilrey. Now, let’s discuss the big picture, as you put it.”

***

“So?” Besha couldn’t seem to stop fidgeting, his socked feet drawn up under him on the couch. “What did they tell you? What are their plans?”

“What do you think?” Tilrey asked.

They were sharing a vial of sap mixed into a pot of tea in Besha’s living room, lit by a single lamp on the end-table. Snow battered the great black bare windows in torrents and swirls that hid the city from view.

“How should I know?” Besha swung his feet to the floor, irritated. “Are they planning a general strike? Because the last one was nearly sixty years ago, and these days the workers just aren’t miserable enough. We give them their pubs and their games and their streaming dramas and porn, and they seem perfectly happy—well, except for the occasional malcontents.”

Tilrey was struck by how similarly Besha’s and Hulda’s minds worked. What she had told him was nearly identical. “That’s right,” he said, trying to remember her wording. “Every Oslov is ensured a basic level of wellbeing, and we’ve been taught that any dissatisfaction with our lot could get us tossed out into the cold.” He gestured at the window, the storm. “We’ve never experienced a greater degree of freedom. Most of us don’t miss it.”

“Huh.” Besha propped his elbows on his knees. “So the shirkers’ plan is to give up?”

Tilrey ignored that. “You can’t overthrow a society like Oslov, so instead, you undermine it. You begin with reform within the system. Within the Council. You start ironing out the differences between the Levels, eliminating the corruption and abuses of power, bringing things closer to how Whyberg actually intended. But reform . . .”

“Reform eventually provokes a reaction,” Besha said. “Upstarts get insecure, make new laws, and consolidate their power. That’s how it always works—in cycles. Which is why nothing ever changes.”

Again, Hulda had said almost the same thing. “That’s why we need to provoke a _bigger_ reaction,” Tilrey said. “A draconian one. First come the modest reforms, to get people used to greater freedom. Then . . .”

“Then you stage some kind of protest or revolutionary action.” Besha was nodding excitedly. “Something that scares the fuck out of Upstarts. The Council blames the reforms. They decide it’s time to crack down. They bring in troops, make arrests, impose curfews and rationing and movement restrictions that apply to all the Levels but the highest. They—we—do all that, and suddenly your average Drudge or low Upstart gets seriously pissed off. Ready for change.”

Tilrey was not surprised by Besha’s grasp of crowd psychology. “That’s the gist.”

There were other factors in play, too, things he couldn’t discuss with Besha yet or possibly ever. The internal dissensions that rippled through the armed forces, turning officers and rank-and-file soldiers toward Dissidence. The Southern Hearth.

Initially, Irin and Hulda had explained to Tilrey, the True Hearth had hoped to siphon away enough workers to the secret Harbourer settlement to cause a shortage that would give it bargaining power with the government. But there were two problems with that plan. First, the government didn’t bargain with Laborers. And second, people _liked _living in the south. Almost no one who migrated there had the slightest desire to return to Oslov. Many of the Southern Hearthers, especially the younger ones, just wanted to try their chances outside the wall.

“What if more Oslovs knew what life in Harbour is like?” Irin had asked Tilrey. “You’ve been there. I haven’t, but I’ve heard the stories. Don’t you think we’d _all_ want to leave?”

“Are you saying you want to encourage mass migration?” Much as Tilrey missed the warmth of the south, he had doubts about the idea.

“It’s a tool,” Irin said. “We’ve got stream makers on our side. They have footage we’ve smuggled out of the Southern Hearth. If they can edit it into something enticing, and we can hack the entertainment feed at just the right moment—” He shrugged. “Well, like I say, it would be a tool. One we’d use with great care, because we could probably only use it once.”

“You don’t seem to like the idea, Tilrey,” Hulda said.

Tilrey struggled to figure out how to phrase it. For most Oslovs—people like Besha—Harbourers were abstractions, not people. “Our weapons could conquer and subjugate Harbour, yes,” he began.

“They certainly could,” Irin broke in with a keenness that made Tilrey wonder if Ranek Egil had told him about the fate of Michigan.

He didn’t like that tone at all. “But is that really what we want? To be an empire? We’ve seen what happened to the world-spanning empires of the Tangle. Can’t we work out our own problems where we are instead of transporting them to someone else’s country?”

Irin and Hulda looked at each other. “First things first,” Hulda said. “But we’ll return to this topic, believe me, Tilrey. I’m interested in your firsthand insights.”

No, Tilrey wouldn’t remind Besha about the wild card of Harbour. He could only hope to teach Irin and Hulda not to share that contemptuous disregard for anyone outside Oslov’s borders.

“Hmm,” Besha said now. “It’s a workable plan, I guess, but you’re forgetting who controls the missiles. A couple of strikes on Thurskein and—” He mimed an explosion with both hands. “Your family’s there, right?”

_Our weapons have too much power, _Tilrey thought, not for the first time, but he didn’t take the bait. “You’d know all about launching missiles, I suppose.”

Besha grimaced. “I opened _one_ tiny backdoor, back when I had access, at Malsha’s request. Well, actually, I hired a hacker to do it. The Island party had it closed after the unauthorized strike, and then they strengthened the security protocols.”

“There may be other backdoors in the system.” Tilrey tried to sound like someone idly speculating. “Ones we can exploit.”

Besha laughed; he was getting more sapped by the minute. “Who’s going to exploit them? You? I can think of one particular backdoor I’d like to exploit right now,” he added, slurring a little as he threw an arm over Tilrey’s shoulder.

Same old Besha. Tilrey didn’t remove the arm, but he didn’t let his body melt into Besha’s, either. “So you’ll make the commitment the Hearth requires? Your military contacts? Once you do that, you know, they’ll have the goods on you. You won’t be able to back out.”

“You already have even worse goods on me.” Besha nuzzled him. “I was doomed the day I met you.”

Tilrey didn’t relax. “And vice versa, maybe. Tell me, were you recently discussing me and my shirker connections with some pretty young thing at the Sanctioned?”

Besha went abruptly still, then pulled away, not meeting Tilrey’s eyes. “That little bitch_. _I swear I didn’t tell her anything, not really, but she kept asking me what was wrong. She was reporting to _them_?”

“Apparently. But how did my name even come up?”

Besha’s face was flaming red. “Don’t laugh, but it seems I sometimes . . . invoke your name when I reach the height of passion. She asked who you were, and I told her you were an old lover I was concerned about because of your recent life choices. That’s all.”

Against his will, Tilrey found himself feeling a little sorry for Besha. He reached out and traced one of the man’s sparse, mousy brows. “Well, you won’t make that mistake again. Maybe I should find you a trustworthy boy to keep you happy. Someone who looks just like me, only younger.”

The instant the bantering words were out, he thought of Ceill and wished he hadn’t. _Not him. No one will ever do that to him._

Besha groaned as if he were in pain, then clasped Tilrey’s hand against his breast. “No one looks just like you. Or if they do, they’re not you and they don’t interest me.”

Tilrey did laugh then, but gently. Sometimes he had to marvel at the way Besha’s mind worked. “I’m past thirty. Am I really that enticing to you?”

“I wish you weren’t.” Besha rolled his eyes tragically to the ceiling. “But I understand. I was an idiot. It won’t happen again.”

Tilrey let Besha stroke his hand. “Now we’re all on the same side, there’s no damage done. Don’t take it out on the girl, please—it’s not her fault. Just be more careful next time.”

“Oh, I know. _Idiot_,” Besha murmured to himself, pressing their palms together.

“I’m curious, though,” Tilrey couldn’t resist adding, “what about her reminds you of me?”

Besha examined the ceiling. His eyes actually looked moist. “Promise not to laugh anymore.”

“I won’t.” He didn’t want to fuck Besha tonight, and he wouldn’t, but it felt good to be wanted, to have people infatuated with him. It felt safe, like coming home, even if it wasn’t a home he’d chosen. And, with Gersha busy mooning over the new baby, it felt particularly good and safe right now.

“She’s so wild and innocent, this girl,” Besha said dreamily. “The way you used to seem to me. Her hands are so clever. I think she might break my heart.”

Tilrey allowed himself to tease, falling into the rhythm of their old relationship. “I thought I already broke it, Fir.”

“The way you broke Vera Linnett’s?”

“I . . . what?”

Besha looked straight at him, his eyes cold now. “I may be stupid sometimes, but I’m not _that_ stupid. You and Vera were fucking—you told me so before you left for Harbour. And I don’t see Gersha climbing in that bed, ever.”

Tilrey knew he should try to control the damage. But he was tired, so tired that all he could say was “You do like to know things, don’t you?”

Besha winked. “It’s quite a tall tale you’ve concocted. I’ll enjoy spreading it around and making it as unflattering to that prick Tollsha Linden as possible.”

“I didn’t concoct anything this time.” Green hells, he hoped Besha stayed discreet. “Gersha did.”

“Clever Gersha, then.” Besha raised Tilrey’s hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles. “Your dirty deceitfulness must be rubbing off on him. But we’re comrades now, aren’t we? We keep each other’s secrets.”

***

“You’re not telling me something,” Hulda Dartán said.

Irin turned from the cutting board, where his aunt had surprised him in the midst of chopping greens. A giant pot steamed on the burner, with another of rice nearby.

“I tell you everything.” He shot her a snide glance and returned to his work.

Hulda moved into his line of vision. She always draped herself in voluminous sweaters or shawls, impersonating a frail old lady of delicate constitution, but her nephew knew she was no such thing. “You suspect someone,” she said. “Someone in particular.”

Even now, she could always read him, but that didn’t mean he was going to tell her. The two of them had an iron-clad division of labor: While Hulda ran the Brothel, dealt with Upstart patrons, and presented an unimpeachable front, Irin worked the staff for intel behind the scenes. That way, if some whore decided to play both sides and report him to Int/Sec, his aunt would remain untouched.

“It’s someone I’ve been cultivating as an asset,” he conceded, “but they’re twitchy. I need time to draw them out. To be sure.”

He packed his gaze with silent reproach. _I’m only trying to protect you._

Hulda arched a brow. “And when will you be sure, my lad? When do I get to meet this little infiltrator?”

“No need to draw hasty conclusions, Aunt. _Tsk, tsk_. How many times have you accused me of being rash?”

He held her gaze. She didn’t blink. “This could change everything, Irin. Don’t toy with me. If you think you’ve found a Resurgent, I want to be involved as soon as possible.”

Maybe she suspected the truth—that he wasn’t just protecting her this time. Whatever was going to happen with Einara, Irin wanted to control it.

His aunt might still be formidable, but she was in her seventies. Sooner or later, she’d have to hand over the reins of leadership. If there really were a Harbourer poem that you could plug into a terminal and bring Redda to its knees, _he_ would discover it first. His future depended on it.

And so he let the smirk slide off his face, feigning sheepishness. “It’s only a hunch right now, and you know how often my hunches don’t pan out. I shouldn’t have told you.”

He would summon Einara this very night. The girl was clearly skilled at concealing her feelings, but Irin would cut through all that play-acting like a hot knife through butter. Many whores had compromising secrets. She wouldn’t be the first he had reduced to breathy, helpless tears.

She would tell him everything, and he would bring it to Hulda like a trophy, a proof that he was ready to take over.

“Well, then. Do the legwork before you jump to conclusions.” His aunt patted his arm in a way that felt equally encouraging and dismissive. “I await your report.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is when I realize the story is getting incredibly complicated and write a super-long chapter to get things more in order! Well, hopefully. :)


	26. The Smokehole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been planning this chapter since the beginning; I hope it works. And yep, this is the chapter that the graphic violence warning refers to, so please exercise caution! Thank you for following me through this story; we're just a few chapters from the end now.

The message came in a rice cake that was delivered to Einara’s door. “Compliments of the cook,” the scut-boy said and dashed off again.

When Einara bit into the cake, she found a crisp curl of paper: _Spoke to ambassador’s boy. Tonight, midnight. Basement. _

So Irin hadn’t just been humoring her last time they talked. He wanted information enough to offer some in return. As Einara tore the message into tiny pieces and flushed it, her heart thudded with mingled dread and anticipation. What did the “ambassador’s boy” know about the attack on Michigan? Apparently something so sensitive they needed to discuss it downstairs in the musty basement, where Upstart patrons never ventured.

Her two appointments of the evening passed in a blur. _Yes, Fir. Of course, Fir. That feels so good, Fir. Yes, very big, Fir. _Brothel staffers were strictly ranked by the level of patrons they attracted, from the high-volume lads at the bottom to the “jewels” at the top, who saw almost exclusively Councillors. Einara was not a jewel—no girl was—but her patrons were powerful enough to command her attention for several hours at a time and sometimes whole nights.

Many of those patrons, like Councillor Linbeck, expected her to cater to their vanities and loneliness as well as their lusts. She didn’t enjoy that, but anything was better than accommodating a slew of faceless men every night.

When she was finally free, near midnight, she showered and twisted up her hair. She’d never joined the staffers who smoked in the basement, but she’d heard them say it was freezing down there. Having no outdoor privileges and hence no outdoor coat, she wrapped herself in two thick fleece jackets.

She knew the way—down a narrow stairway from the storeroom behind the kitchen. At this time of night, no one was around, but she checked first before gliding silently past counters and kettles, then among shelves and pallets.

The stairs were pitch-dark, and she couldn’t find a light switch, so she clung to the cold concrete wall and felt her way along. With each step, the temperature seemed to drop a degree. It was a relief to turn a corner and catch a glimmer of light from below.

The basement was much bigger than she’d imagined, so big she couldn’t see the far wall. The ceiling, supported by massive arches, vanished into darkness. Einara threaded her way carefully among crates and barrels taller than she was, heading for the light and a small, dark silhouette.

A cluster of furniture had been arranged there, an improvised living room. As Einara reached it, Irin sat up on a shabby sofa and cocked his head. “You’re late.”

“I couldn’t find the light, Fir.” She sat on the opposite end of the sofa. From here, maybe fifteen meters away, she could see the side wall of the basement and the unearthly glow of the smokehole. She wondered if being in that snow cave, buried way below the street, would feel like being outdoors. Like being free.

Of course, in Oslov, freedom could be terrifying. What was it people were always saying here? _Guerdenmuirth áth tauga, _“idleness is death,” and one of their words for death meant “freezing.”

Irin held out a vial. “Have a nip?”

“No thanks, Fir.”

He dribbled sap into his own palm—only a few drops, Einara noticed—and licked it. “You never accept sap, do you, Einara? Are you afraid it won’t agree with your constitution?”

The words sent alarm bells ringing through Einara’s head. _Never drink sap, _the Colonel’s trainers had warned her. _You won’t process it as easily as Oslovs do. _It wasn’t easy to refuse sap when Upstarts offered it, but the few times she’d drunk as much as a half-vial, she’d been violently sick afterward.

She blinked blandly at him. “I like to keep my head clear so I can do my duties.”

“An admirable goal.” Irin leaned back against a threadbare cushion. He gave off a studied air of indifference, but there was tension in his shoulders. “You certainly kept your wits about you with Councillor Linbeck. I’m much obliged to you for drawing him out.”

_The ambassador. What about the ambassador? _“Thanks, Fir. I did my best. I hope it was useful.”

“Oh yes,” Irin said. “But you didn’t have such a clear head last time we talked, did you? When you started ranting about Oslov bombs falling on Harbour?”

Einara’s throat cinched tight. The light above her was glaring, the shadows hungry. If the ambassador’s boy hadn’t confirmed her story, then why was she here? “It was only a rumor I heard in the Wastes, Fir. My friend said—”

“Of course, your _friend_.” Irin’s eyes were cold slits. “Tell me, sweetheart, did your friend come from Michigan?”

Einara went hot all over, then cold. But her training held. “Michigan?” she heard her own voice asking politely, mangling the word with Oslov pronunciation. “What’s that?”

His eyes didn’t release her. “I have friends in Harbour. They tell me your story of a wayward missile is true.”

Of course it was true. And Irin knew because he wasn’t the loyal little Brothel flunkie he pretended to be—he had “friends in Harbour,” spies. She’d suspected as much. “What else do they say?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager. “Who sent the missile?”

“Not so fast, little one.” He adjusted a pillow beneath the small of his back as if they were making idle chit-chat. “Time for you to answer a question for me. How did _you _know about this attack that the leaders of our Republic managed to keep a secret for the past ten years?”

“I already told you, Fir. I had a friend from Harbour in the Wastes. She lost her whole family when the bomb fell.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Rose Carew.” She plucked it from memory, a childhood friend.

“Where in the Wastes can I find her?”

“You can’t. We were in a village called Inkhul, but your troops raided it. They set fire to Rose’s house. She didn’t get out.”

She stopped short because it was plain from Irin’s face that he didn’t believe a word. And if he did make inquiries in Inkhul, they would only confirm him in his disbelief.

A stone sank in her gut as he said, almost gentle now, “You’ve nothing to fear from being honest with me. No one’s going to hurt you here.”

_No one must ever know you’re not an Oslov. _The rule had been drilled into Einara’s head for years. _Die rather than reveal yourself._

“Honest, Fir?” Her voice still sounded so innocent, as if she had no idea what he was talking about. But her limbs kept coming loose from their joints and floating away—her left arm up near the ceiling, her right leg under the couch. Her heart beat madly, yet she couldn’t use the adrenaline to pull herself together. There was no _her_ anymore, just mangled pieces.

Like a severed head that can still blink and frown, her brain remained operational, reminding her of the pin holding her hair. It was as long as her forefinger and sharp, without a safety catch. If she drove it into her own carotid, aiming just right, she might bleed out in seconds.

Piercing arteries with sharp objects and crushing windpipes with garrotes had been part of their training. Einara had slit the throat of a man condemned for treason, then held him while he thrashed his way into the peace of death. But could she turn the techniques on herself?

Killing was hard. She’d tried to think of her four victims as straw-stuffed dummies, as hogs ready for slaughter, but she couldn’t forget the way they looked at her. Two never quite seemed to grasp what was happening, but the other two did. The struggle, the fear, and then the eyes glazed with helpless acceptance. Oslovs believed your last moment was the one you relived for eternity.

“You’re playing dumb,” Irin said. “What did I tell you about that?”

He rose and paced the length of the sofa. In the instant when he swung around, Einara tugged out the pin. Hair settled on her neck like a velvet curtain—such a silly little comfort, her long, lush hair. Had she pinned it up and taken it down for the last time?

She hid the sharp object in her right palm. _You know what you must do. You know. You know._

“I don’t know what you mean, Fir,” she said, pulse booming in her ears.

Irin turned on his heel and bore down on her. “The longer you pretend, the harder you make things for yourself. I know what you are, child. I know the Colonel sent you. And I know what she sent you to do.”

His face was inches from hers, and Einara cringed back, reacting at last. Her heart beat so loudly, her limbs ice. How did he know? How _could_ he know? Surely Artur Threindal hadn’t betrayed his trainees? She thought he cared about her, but no Oslov could be trusted. They were hard and cold as the north. Heartless.

She would try one last time to convince this man before she made her sacrifice. “Whatever you think about me, you’re wrong. I don’t understand anything you’re saying.”

“No? _Do you understand this?_”

He spoke the last sentence in heavily accented Harbourer. Einara trembled all over, tears springing to her eyes. _You know what you must do. _“Please, Fir,” she said in Oslov. “You’re scaring me.”

But she was just buying time, because he knew. He knew everything, and he’d probably told other Oslovs about her, and that meant she had to die. The trainers had been very clear on this point. _If you remain alive long enough for interrogation, you doom us all._

Inside Einara was an angry little girl screaming and pounding her fists bloody: _Not fair! I’m not ready!_ But her sister hadn’t been ready, either.

Irin seemed at ease now, so horribly at ease. He sat down, closer than before, and bent to speak into her ear like a lover. “There’s no need for theatrics. I told you already, no one’s going to hurt you as long as you cooperate. I think you know what that means.”

She shook her head by rote. Why had she ever asked him about Michigan? That had sealed her fate. She couldn’t confess, because there was no script for confession. All she could do was repeat the same old lies: “No one sent me here. I’m not a spy. I swear to you.”

Irin didn’t even do her the courtesy of pretending to listen anymore. “We can work together. I think my people and yours have a common cause—the downfall of the Republic. All I need from you are the backdoor passwords. The ‘verses.’ Isn’t that what you call them?”

_Our greatest secret. Our only weapon. You must never tell. _The whole vast basement was pulsing—bigger, smaller, bigger, smaller, as if she were trapped inside a panicked, overburdened heart. Any moment the muscle would seize up. The blood would stop pumping. She would freeze to death. She would explode.

Irin snapped his fingers in front of her nose. “Are you hearing me, love? The verses. Colonel Thibault doesn’t care about you. She’s abandoned you.”

_I know that_. Einara hadn’t believed in the Colonel since she was a child. The woman had used her and thrown her away.

“I know you’re frightened, but you can work with us. I promise.”

He had no power to promise that. In a distant way, Einara remembered Artur’s advice to forget the mission and spend her life as an Oslov. She’d had her own plan, too, to forget the mission and focus on revenge.

How absurd. There was only the mission, only the training. Nothing else had ever mattered. If she told Irin the verses, if she admitted she wasn’t an Oslov, the Colonel would have her skinned and gutted and hung upside down in the capital square. That was the fate of traitors; she’d seen it with her own eyes.

Or perhaps the Oslovs—government, rebels, it didn’t matter—would target the Colonel’s capital and burn everything to radioactive ash. Then they would overrun Harbour, and Einara would spend the rest of her life in one of their sterile cells, begging for death. There was no scenario in which giving up the verses led to anything else.

Only one choice, and it was time. She poked the tip of the hairpin into her palm, steadying herself, and let a childish sob escape her. “All right, Fir. Please, don’t hurt me. All right.”

The sob did its work. Irin’s shoulders untensed as he prepared for her to betray everything her life stood for. He fished in his pocket and tugged out a tissue.

Einara got a firm grip on the hairpin. _Now._

As Irin offered her the tissue, she seized hold of his wrist with her free hand and twisted, pulling him tight against her. She drove the pin into the tender, pulsing spot where his jaw met his neck. And out, and in again. Again.

Thin streams of blood spurted from the wound like water from the fountain in the capital square. She had just enough presence of mind to realize she must keep it off the sofa. She drew the flailing man to her breast like an infant and wrapped her outer fleece around his head, half smothering him in it, using it to soak up the blood. Then she eased them both onto the bare floor.

He was still struggling, or maybe just spasming. His hands grasped at her arms, her clothes, but didn’t hold on. At first he made no sound; then came a harsh, liquid gasping at regular intervals. He was choking on his own blood.

She closed her eyes and held him to her breast and whispered, “Die. Please die.”

By the time he stopped twitching, by the time she was sure, her whole front and hands and face were sticky with the warmth that flowed from him. The air was rank with iron and shit—death evacuated the bowels. At least she knew what to expect.

_Just please not on the sofa. _Upholstery would stain, and if she had to get rid of it, people would notice.

Though she hadn’t been conscious of making plans, Einara already knew what she would do. She couldn’t bury the body under the concrete floor. Just beyond the wall, though, was a natural refrigerator—the snow cave. Even in summer, the giant drifts between skyscrapers never melted, sheltered from the force of the arctic sun.

She closed her eyes and allowed herself, for an instant, to face the truth. She had disobeyed orders and killed a man, very likely for nothing.

It should have been her body that was limp and cooling on the concrete floor, but the little girl inside her had refused death. And that fierce little girl, she knew, would get her through the hours of hard work to come.

First she removed her blood-caked outer fleece and wrapped it around the dead man like a shroud, tying it fast with the sleeves. Then the second fleece. Shivering in her thin shirt, she went to the heavy garage door and tugged and tugged until it squealed open.

Frigid air rushed in, every breath a stab in her lungs. At least the snow cave was sheltered from the vicious winds above. Her eyes teared as she grabbed Irin’s feet and dragged him toward the garage door.

Slight as he was, she had to pause several times to rest, her eyes tearing. Hours seemed to pass before she got him outside and over the ice-crusted snow to the far end of the small enclosure. And then it was time to dig.

No gloves, so she used her bare hands, crouched on her knees beside the dead man. Her fingertips went numb instantly, but adrenaline kept her moving. She dug through the icy crust, scooping out a new tunnel in the packed snow, large enough for a grave.

With any luck, the body would freeze solid before anyone came out for a morning smoke break. Barring a freak thaw, there would be no smell. Still, she dug deeper and deeper until she could barely feel her hands. Then she pulled and pushed and tugged the body into her tunnel, folding it to make it fit.

She couldn’t close up the hole yet without risking frostbite, so she retreated inside, sealed the garage door, and began mechanically rubbing her hands together. Sometimes she heard a distant keening that probably came from her own throat.

_It should be me. It should be me._

She was saved from those spiraling thoughts by the urgent need to clean up the blood on the floor. To her relief, there wasn’t much, and she’d managed to keep it off the sofa cushions. She found rags and even a filthy sink. The pin—where was the pin? Oh yes. Still in his neck.

If Irin had told other people about her, then she would be suspected as soon as they realized he’d disappeared. By killing him instead of herself, she’d simply delayed the inevitable and taken him down with her.

Did he deserve that? No. She felt nothing about him except sadness that his last moment had been one of surprise and terror.

And still the night didn’t end. Warmed by her cleaning duties, she yanked on the garage door and stumbled outside again. She knelt beside her tunnel and scooped up snow, which she piled on top of the body and patted firm. Pile and pat, pile and pat. Over and over.

In a low, cracked voice, she recited the old Oslov prayer for the dead that Artur had taught her. She couldn’t remember the rites of her own people anymore, the ones the priest had recited at her mother and sister’s funeral. Oslov had taken over her brain, Oslov and the mission and the training. “Rot he shall not,” she whispered. “Frozen in the last breath, breath turned to ice, eyes turned toward the stars.”

The words ran together. “I should have died,” she breathed into the hole, imagining that he’d appreciate this last gift of the confession he’d wanted from her. “Me, not you. I am the spy. I am the rot in the apple.”

She couldn’t see the hump of the corpse in the gloom anymore. The hole was almost filled, the wall of the cave rebuilt. Irin would rest snug in his nest of snow and ice until they found him—if they ever did.

Einara patted the wall smooth. She gathered handfuls of smoke-flecked snow from the neighboring walls to camouflage the disruption. Not a splash of red anywhere. She would have to go to Wardrobe and beg for more fleeces, say that hers had been stolen from the caf. She would be reprimanded and have her privileges docked.

But she was alive.

As she closed the garage door a last time and returned to the basement, a bizarre, blissful weightlessness took hold of her. Maybe this was the euphoria that people experienced right before hypothermia killed them. Maybe it was madness. No matter.

She was alive, breathing and panting and shivering as she climbed the stairs. This time she navigated in the dark without trouble, as if she’d grown eyes like a cat’s. Maybe she could see through walls now. Maybe she could do anything.

In the kitchen, she paused to wash her hands and choose a small paring knife from the butcher’s block, which she tucked into her waistband. She would keep it on her from now on: a contingency plan.

She wouldn’t let herself be taken alive, but until they came for her she would savor every instant. Being alive had never felt so good.


	27. New Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last two chapters should be up this week. The second-to-last one is pure schmoop. :) Thank you for following this story as it ballooned out of control, dear readers! <3

_Two ten-days later_

“Gunde,” Besha said, “you haven’t listened to a thing I’ve said since we got in the car. Are you _happy_ to get rid of your old dad for the next twenty days?”

Thirteen years old, wiry and blond like her father, Valgunde Lindblom had her nose glued to the mag-car’s window, watching the dark city glide past. “What did you say, Daddy?”

For the past year or so, Besha’s once chatty, confiding daughter had been frustratingly sullen and secretive. He missed the old days when she hung on his every word. “I asked if you’re excited about the new sauna. It should be built by your next free-day.”

On Besha’s other side, nine-year-old Blas rolled his eyes. “She’s trying to find her friend’s building.”

Gunde turned from the window to scowl at her brother. “You’re so annoying.”

“You are, though! You told me!” The boy turned to Besha. With his glossy brown hair and long black eyelashes, he was already the image of his mother, and sometimes he was just as irritatingly observant. “It’s all Gunde talks about anymore, ever. Bridda does her hair like this, Bridda says history class is boring, Bridda lives in Ring Five. I think she’s in love with Bridda.”

Gunde reached across her father to whack her brother in the shoulder with a volume of Whyberg’s _Maxims_. “Shut up. You’re a whiny little boy who can’t even debug B-level code. You’re a _dud_!”

“Hey, hey, enough.” Besha interposed himself as Blas tried to hit his sister back. Although Gunde was Besha’s favorite, it always made him uneasy when she mocked her brother for his middling test scores. Poor Blas took after his dad in that respect, at least.

“Try to act civilized, both of you.” He turned to his daughter. “Why haven’t _I_ heard about this Bridda yet?”

Gunde was blushing. “She’s just a friend. It’s not important.”

But it was important! Since Gunde was about Blas’s age, she’d been painfully isolated at school. Classmates had ganged up and started making her nights in the dorm a living hell—calling her names, pulling her hair, leaving chewed gum on her pillow. The ringleader—Councillor Akeina’s niece, Ulrike—said she deserved it for being small and slow and a crybaby.

Besha tasted bile just thinking about that Akeina girl. When Gunde told him, he’d wanted to wring the bully’s neck—or, more legally, to go and give his smug colleague a piece of his mind and order him to discipline his niece. But Davita persuaded him that interfering would do more harm than good. “It’s Gunde’s battle to fight,” she said.

So Besha allowed Gunde to fight her battle, offering advice and encouragement from the sidelines. He told her he’d bested his own tormentors at school. He just didn’t tell her how he’d done it: by sucking up to a popular boy, jeering at kids even more vulnerable than he was, and generally being a little shit.

He didn’t want his daughter following in his footsteps in that way, and anyway, she shouldn’t have to. He’d been nobody. Her parents were Councillors, for green’s sake. She should be _ruling _the school, not making nice with some idiot elite crowd.

“I want to hear about Bridda,” he said.

Gunde wouldn’t look at him. “She’s just a girl in my dorm pod. We study together.”

“She doesn’t want you to know,” Blas piped up, “because Bridda’s a Drudge.”

Gunde went for him with her book again. Besha had to hold them apart, pinning each of them against a window as the car glided lazily toward the forbidding concrete school complex. His driver, in the front seat, pretended not to notice a thing.

Gunde’s lips were bitten white. “That’s a lie,” she hissed at her brother. “It’s a crime against Whybergism to call anyone an Upstart or a Drudge before they’re old enough to be Notified. Mother and my gov teacher _said _so!”

“Her whole family are Drudges,” Blas said, undeterred. “They live in Drudge housing.”

“Gunde. Blasha. Quiet, both of you!” They were on Besha’s last nerve. On the plus side, though, he was finally starting to understand what he was hearing—and he liked it.

Tilrey had promised that the True Hearth would grant Besha’s two favors—and more—in exchange for his silent cooperation and his contacts in the military. So Besha had used his networks to send messages—physically, of course, not electronically—to a couple of officers he knew who were already knee-deep in illegal activity and disposed to be unfriendly toward the government.

Only a few days later, a gruff carpenter had shown up at his office asking when he wanted his sauna installed. But he hadn’t expected results on the other request so soon.

“This Bridda,” he said cautiously to his daughter. “Has she taken your side against Ulrike’s gang?”

Gunde grimaced like he’d mentioned some private bodily function. “Ulrike’s an idiot. She sleeps with her mouth open. I’m not scared of her and I never was.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” He couldn’t let his daughter know he’d hired her new “friend” to protect her; she would never forgive him. But he had to know this Bridda was doing her job.

“I couldn’t care less that your friend comes from a Laborer background,” he reassured her, trying to sound as high-minded as Gersha would have. “You might want to avoid praising Bridda too much in front of your mother. But if _you_ like her, that’s good enough for me.”

“I don’t care if you or anybody cares,” Gunde said sulkily. Then: “You really don’t mind, though?”

“Of course not. Do you think I’m a snob?” Besha turned to Blas. “And don’t _you_ go tattling to your mother, either. She won’t care. Whyberg said that each person’s merit must be determined individually.”

Yes, that was something Gersha would have said. With a little practice, Besha could get as skilled at pretending to be an egalitarian like Gersha as he had been at pretending to be an elitist prick like Verán.

“Now, of course,” he said, turning to his daughter again, “I know you can handle Ulrike’s gang by yourself. At your age, you’ve got more important things to worry about than bullies. But forgive your old dad for needing some reassurance. This Bridda doesn’t stand by and watch when those girls are mean to you, does she?”

Blas broke in again, unable to keep his knowledge to himself: “Bridda broke Ulrike’s best friend’s nose during rec hour and called it an accident! Then she took that girl’s bunk in the dorm so she could be nearer to Gunde. Everybody knows. Everybody’s scared of her!”

_Ah. _Besha watched the thousand lights of the hated complex grow closer and closer, looming in the inky arctic morning. For the first time since he heard about that cursed Ulrike, he could breathe properly. He could leave his daughter at school and know she wouldn’t return to him in tears or catatonic silence. With any luck, this Bridda would teach her how to use her own words and fists for self-defense.

“Gunde doesn’t seem scared of Bridda,” he said innocently.

Blas narrowed his eyes. “Everybody _also_ says Gunde and Bridda were kissing in the supply room.”

Gunde went dead white. “It’s not true. Blas’s spreading tales. He’s a gossip!”

“Shh. Never mind him.” Besha glared at his son again, then patted his daughter’s shoulder. He hadn’t expected his little girl to grow up so soon, but these things happened, didn’t they? He’d had an awful crush on Gersha around her age. And it wasn’t like he could claim he’d never felt anything for a Drudge.

“Gossip is for brainless busybodies,” he said virtuously. “More importantly, whatever you do in the supply room is your own business, and no one’s but yours.”

_As long as it’s just puppy love. _When Gunde was closer to Notification, he would remind her to maintain her dignity around her inferiors—in an enlightened, magnanimous manner, of course.

Gunde gazed up at him. Like her father, she was not a trusting soul. “It’s not actually like that,” she insisted. “We didn’t . . . but you mean that, Daddy? You wouldn’t care?”

“Care? I care that you do whatever makes you happy.” Next time they were alone, Besha would suggest Gunde bring Bridda around to his apartment for an overnight—a secret they would keep from her mother. He wanted to gauge the Drudge girl’s fitness as a companion for himself.

Maybe he could even get Bridda to start reporting to him on Gunde’s emotional state—but no, that was crossing a line. He didn’t want to do anything that would give his daughter reason to hate him even _more_ when she was old enough to figure all these things out.

And he already had so many secrets to keep now, especially from his wife. Lucky thing that Davita was so focused on her own long-term goal: becoming General Magistrate of the Republic. Besha himself had long since stopped fantasizing about holding that office; it would gratify his vanity, but also put him under a dangerous spotlight.

He would keep working away behind the scenes the way he always had, nudging and nudging Oslov toward becoming a society where someone like him, someone who lived by his wits and drove a hard bargain, could be in charge. Tilrey had already given him a few lectures on the economic systems of the Tangle, and while the details were deadly boring, the overall picture was . . . tantalizing. Besha felt he’d been born hundreds of years too late. In the Tangle, he would have been unbound.

“Where did you get the idea that I was close-minded?” he asked.

“I just thought . . .” Gunde dropped her eyes. “Just because of the way Mom’s family is, I guess. They’re always talking about bloodlines. Anyway. Thanks for not being angry.”

“What a silly thing to be angry about.” Besha contemplated Blas, who still looked mutinous. They needed to have a chat about the gossiping and the tattling. Perhaps Blas resembled dear old Dad in more ways than his test scores.

On the plus side, the boy had a useful trait that Besha himself lacked: a touchy conscience. Quick to give offense, Blas was equally quick to regret his behavior and apologize, and he always seemed genuinely sorry. Besha would play on the boy’s guilt to keep him quiet.

“Maybe you’ll understand your sister’s feelings for her new friend when you get a little older, my lad,” he said in a superior tone. “Now, let’s discuss things that actually matter. Such as my new sauna.”

***

Apparently Hulda Dartán didn’t always skulk inside a pillar in the basement of the Sanctioned Brothel. When Tilrey arrived for his second meeting there, again shepherded by Sibylla, he found the Brothel keeper sharing the sofa with Mirella Tunstadt.

The two women were conferring in low voices. When they saw Tilrey, they snapped upright. Mirella looked harried, while Hulda was as serene and inscrutable as ever.

“Did you tell him?” she asked Sibylla.

“I just said it was important.” Sibylla turned to frown at Tilrey. “He complained about missing some committee meeting. He acts like _he’s _the Councillor.”

“Well, I serve as proxy for my Fir.” Tilrey took the armchair this time. “Ever since his son was born, he hasn’t been working many evenings. He likes to stop by the nursery or his wife’s place and say hello.”

It still felt strange to say “_his_ son,” but Tilrey would get used to it. With any luck, he would convince himself that Ceill was Gersha’s, too—which would be better for all concerned.

Just an hour ago, he’d watched them together: Gersha standing by his office door with the baby in his arms and Vera hovering protectively nearby. She was starting to develop her mother’s statuesque, authoritative bearing. And Gersha was so good with the baby, adopting a special soft voice that made Ceill gaze upward wonderingly with his great blue eyes. Once Tilrey had even heard Gersha sing Ceill a lullabye, his voice husky and on-pitch. They were the perfect high-named family, two attractive parents with adoring eyes on their attractive offspring.

“How sweet,” Hulda said without a shred of interest.

“Right.” Tilrey found the Brothel keeper’s apparent lack of human sympathies oddly refreshing. “Anyway, what didn’t Sibylla tell me? And where’s Irin?”

Mirella and Sibylla both looked at Hulda, who said, “That would be the question.”

“Gone,” Mirella said.

“Where?”

“Again, that would be the question. No one’s seen or heard from him for two ten-days.”

“Wait, _gone_?” Tilrey came halfway up out of the chair, his throat tightening. He’d assumed Irin was simply off smuggling or politicking, possibly even visiting the Southern Hearth. Off the radar couldn’t mean anything good. “Did they take him? Is he under interrogation?”

“We feared so at first,” Sibylla said. “But Hulda says if Int/Sec took him alive, we’d all be arrested by now.”

Mirella shot her a cold look. “We don’t know that.”

“My dear girl, we do.” Hulda picked up a wadded piece of knitting and extracted the needles. “My nephew is a fine schemer and spy, but endurance isn’t his strong suit. He kept a cyanide capsule on him in case of this very scenario. Tonight I’ll make sure each of you has one, too.”

“So you’re saying that if Int/Sec took Irin, but hasn’t come for us, then he’s probably . . . ?”

Tilrey had never much liked Irin, but the thought of the man lying waxy and motionless in a morgue drawer, or already burned to ash, opened a bone-cold void in his chest. He’d known the stakes were high, but this was too close, too real. Would he swallow the capsule if he had to, or would he hesitate a split second too long?

“You look shaken, Secretary Bronn,” Hulda said in her dry way.

Was she testing him? Tilrey looked her in the eye, grateful for the stoicism he’d spent his life learning. “I’m a little startled. But I knew this was a possibility. For any of us.”

He couldn’t tell Gersha. He’d have to bear the fear on his own—this metallic taste on his tongue. If nothing else, he could be sure now the Linnetts would always protect Ceill, and he hoped they’d protect Gersha for Ceill’s sake.

“What you suggest is possible,” Mirella said. “But if Int/Sec was responsible, they’d probably be sniffing around the Brothel, trying to find out if Irin had associates here.”

Hulda said, “Unless they have a mole we haven’t found yet—and believe me, I’m careful—I’ve seen no sign of them. I advise we all keep our eyes wide open.”

“But if Int/Sec didn’t take him, then who?” It was frustrating how casual they were all being.

People rarely “disappeared” in Redda, and when they did, they tended to turn up as Int/Sec detainees or exiles or corpses dumped on the edge of the Wastes. The city had very few places to hide, as Tilrey had discovered himself, twelve years ago, when he briefly escaped from Malsha into the Outer Ring. “Have you even bothered to report him missing?” he asked.

“Of course. It would look suspicious if I didn’t; he’s my next of kin and under my supervision.” Hulda was knitting briskly, her face placid. “Our local Constable took down the data. But she knows as well as I do that Irin was involved with shady characters in the Outer Ring.”

“Smugglers?” But of course, the Brothel would have a presence on the shadow market. Buckets of sap must move through this place, donated by generous Upstart patrons to their favorites. Hulda and Irin probably traded their surplus for the usual luxuries—or, if they were being more daring, for weapons smuggled from military installations by corrupt little entrepreneurs like Besha.

“So,” Tilrey said, “you think maybe these criminal associates . . . made off with him?”

Hulda’s chuckle was mirthless. “That’s a genteel way of describing the sorts of things that can happen in the Outer Ring.”

Tilrey remembered the men he’d encountered when he ran away, eighteen and naïve and desperate to get home to Thurskein. Lean and shark-eyed, they hadn’t listened to his feeble attempts to bargain, hadn’t even looked him in the eye. As far as they were concerned, he was goods himself. They scanned his ID chip, locked him in a closet, and sold him back to Malsha for the highest price they dared.

Mirella said, “We don’t know anything for certain. But about a month ago, Irin had a dispute with a member of the Kauvilaa family over payment for a shipment of fruit that turned out to be rotten.”

Hulda frowned. “The Kauvilaas are cold customers, no doubt about it, but Irin’s been dealing with those people since he could grow a beard. He knows better than to provoke them.”

“The Kauvilaas are Taugists,” Sibylla said, wrapping her arms around herself. Her face had gone pale. “Death lovers—that’s what I heard. They wiped out the entire Vaurien family a couple years ago. They left the disembowelled corpses for their god in the Wastes.”

Hulda sniffed. “Superstitious poppycock. They spread stories like that to intimidate anyone who tries to muscle in on their trade.”

“Still.” Even Mirella looked a little shaken. “Irin wasn’t very good at sanding down his rough edges. If he said something cheeky to one of those lawless men, then doubled down by not apologizing . . .”

“We’ll have none of this idle speculation.” Hulda set down her knitting and looked sharply at each of them in turn. “Until we know anything, wondering simply breeds fear. Only two things matter: He’s out of the picture, and we keep our eyes open. Understood?”

Sibylla nodded, followed after a moment by Mirella.

“Secretary?” Hulda said. It seemed to amuse her to call Tilrey by his title.

Tilrey couldn’t unclench his jaw. He wouldn’t put it past Hulda and Irin, or Hulda by herself, to keep secrets from the rest of them. At least he could rely on Dal to tell him the truth, or as much as she knew of it.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll keep my ears open in the Sector. I’ve sat in on a few Int/Sec committee meetings; access is restricted, but everyone knows me and assumes I’m just reporting back to Gersha.”

By “everyone knows me,” of course, he meant _Most of them have fucked me_. It was funny how ready men were to assume he was harmless just because they’d had their cock inside him. Funny and sad, and useful.

No doubt Hulda was familiar with the phenomenon. She raised her brows, looking almost impressed. “Your Councillor’s new mother-in-law runs that committee, doesn’t she? Good. Very good. Use all your sources.”

Tilrey made a mental note to ask Besha to contact his source in the bowels of Int/Sec, just to make sure Irin wasn’t there. Having a plan bolstered him, but he hadn’t forgotten what he’d come here to ask in the first place. “Have you questioned your staff yet, Director? Any leads on the Resurgent infiltrators?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid.” Hulda’s face had closed. “You realize, of course, we can’t be sure any Harbourers ever reached here at all. If they had, I would expect to know by their accent and manners. I have an ear for these things.”

“But that’s just the point!” It was frustrating how prone Oslovs were to dismiss the ingenuity of anyone who wasn’t an Oslov. “They won’t be what you’re expecting. They know better.”

Tilrey did his best to describe Artur’s training and acculturation process for the Resurgents, emphasizing its thoroughness. “If you have any staff members who are Outers but don’t speak or act like Outers, _those_ are the ones you should suspect. These kids know how to blend in with us.”

Hulda had listened closely, nodding as he spoke. “Raised and trained to be like us. That could be an interesting challenge to manage—an asset, too.”

“But be careful. Before they were trained to be us, they were trained to hate us. Artur said some of them were a hairsbreadth away from murdering him in his sleep.”

“That Colonel Thibault,” Hulda said with something like admiration, “must be a highly effective leader. What a pity she hasn’t a hope of beating our killing machines. It’s rather sad, the nature of this power we inherited from our ancestors. Like a bulldozer that simply levels everything interesting.”

She picked up her knitting again. “I shall keep all this in mind, Secretary. If I find a Resurgent in our midst, you’ll be the first to know.”


	28. Safe From the Storm

“Turn me over,” Gersha whispered. “I want to look at you.”

Warm lips brushed the nape of his neck. Behind him, Tilrey chuckled throatily. “I thought you asked me to take you ruthlessly from behind.”

The mere words, spoken in that deep voice, made Gersha even harder. “And you have been,” he said, straining and rutting into his husband’s hand. Tilrey’s iron-hard organ was still penetrating him from the other side, stretching him to seemingly impossible fullness, but he wanted _more_. Rocking his hips, eyes squeezed shut, he expelled words through his teeth: “It’s always so hard to decide.”

“You’re very bossy for someone who’s squirming on my cock.” But Tilrey withdrew.

Gersha groaned in protest—and then made a different noise, a little murmur of wanton anticipation, as powerful arms flipped him onto his back. Without being told, he rolled up and hooked his knees around Tilrey’s hips, offering himself.

It felt so good sometimes to be taken hard. And Tilrey was clearly just as hungry for him.

A half-hour ago, as they set down their bags in the living room of the vacation house, Tilrey had confessed that the long hours of sitting in Council sessions and committee meetings had left him full of pent-up energy. “Sometimes I just want to fuck something. Someone. Doesn’t even matter who. I guess that’s why the Sanctioned and kettle boys exist,” he added, eyes on Gersha, a minute furrow appearing between his brows. “I never really understood before.”

He looked so worried that Gersha laughed and tousled his hair. “Stress is part of the job. And luckily, Fir Councillor, you have someone here who wants nothing more than to be fucked by you. To _oblige _you.”

“Don’t play that way.” But the sudden flush on Tilrey’s cheeks and his glazed eyes told Gersha that his cock had a different reaction.

“Who’s playing? As far as I’m concerned, you _are _the Councillor now. You make the decisions, Fir. I’m just here to pour your tea and listen to your troubles.”

“Don’t talk that way. Seriously.” But Tilrey was still flushed, and now he was laughing, too. “I thought you were an egalitarian,” he said, and came over to press Gersha up against the wall. “I thought coveralls turned you on.”

Gersha tipped his head back and opened his mouth to the hot, claiming kiss, mashing their bodies together. “Not today,” he said, feeling the eager hardness against his hip.

From the living room, they made a speedy trip to the bedroom and over to the bed, grunting and groping and removing each other’s clothes as they went. This time, Tilrey made no attempt to fold anything.

He really did seem desperate to fuck, every limb a taut bowstring. He all but tossed Gersha on the bed, positioned him on hands and knees, and worked slick fingers inside him, his breath coming in hoarse pants. When Gersha writhed with sheer need, Tilrey tangled his free hand in his hair and yanked his head back, as if to remind him whom he belonged to.

It was humiliating, and then it was—something else. Gersha’s desire sharpened to a red-hot point. He squirmed again and felt tiny pricks of pain at the roots of his hair and whinnied with the need for a cock inside him.

That was how he ended up here on his back, writhing again and silently begging for the stiff, livid organ that jutted against his shamelessly exposed ass, a pearl of moisture shimmering at its tip.

He grunted, but didn’t resist, as Tilrey grabbed both his wrists and pinioned them above his head. The heavy cockhead was nudging the entrance to his passage, and it seemed impossibly big, but oh, it would fit.

“Look at me,” Tilrey said.

Gersha raised his eyes without hesitation. Tilrey’s looked back at him, sky-blue and radiant and just a little amused. “Do you want this?”

“Oh verdant hells, yes!” Then Gersha was babbling things he’d heard Tilrey say in this position: “Yes, give it to me hard; yes, Fir, let me be your sweet slut; I’ll be good for you; fill me up, take me, please, _please._”

When he ran out of words, Tilrey was still gazing at him. His cock remained hard against Gersha, but his face looked unexpectedly lost.

“I don’t know if I trust myself,” he said, his grip on Gersha’s wrists loosening. “To steer the ship. I don’t know.”

Was his husband having an existential crisis _now_? Gersha clawed at one of the restraining hands and held on tight, digging his nails in. “_I_ trust you, and Besha trusts you, and Ranek trusts you, and Dal trusts you. That’s what matters. And we’ve got company in less than two hours. So if you don’t get down to business right fucking now, I’ll never forgive you.”

He was relieved when Tilrey’s grip tightened again. Bruises might bloom on his wrists later, but he didn’t care.

A dry chuckle, and then that enormous cockhead prodded at his entrance. One of Gersha’s hands flapped briefly free as Tilrey used his own to line himself up. Gersha grabbed at the pillow, keeping himself splayed.

And then—oh, all the possible gods. Oh, verdant hells. Gersha squeezed his eyes shut and focused on relaxing, on receiving, as Tilrey’s cock slid inside him again. Conservative, careful thrusts at first, staking out the territory. He twisted as the contact lit up his nerve endings.

Tilrey pinned Gersha’s free hand again. “You’re going to have to stay still if you want me all the way in.”

That tone made Gersha stop moving at once. His whole body was taut and eager, his hips raised to accommodate the deeper, more masterful strokes that pressed inside him, claiming every inch. He couldn’t take it, he’d burst. And yet clearly he could take it, impaled like a suckling pig he’d seen in the Duke’s palace, roasting on a spit. “More,” he whispered.

Tilrey was losing his precious control. His breathing sped up; his thrusts turned wilder and rougher. Each exhale was hot on Gersha’s face. In a distant way, he sensed tears on his cheeks, numbness in his wrists.

When he finally felt the plump, bristly cushion of the scrotum against his crack, tickling and tantalizing, he sobbed aloud. At last, he was holding every inch.

But it wasn’t over. One of Gersha’s hands was free again, and Tilrey’s iron fingers wrapped themselves around Gersha’s cock. Tilrey began moving, withdrawing just enough to make Gersha grunt in protest. In and out, in and out, his hand sliding from the base of Gersha’s cock to the head every time he drove himself home.

And Gersha was rising, too, arching his back to meet each stroke. In and out, till his thighs were on fire and his cock was the room’s center of gravity, remorseless as an exploded star, mashing everything into a single, impossibly dense point where it _had _to explode.

Everything went weightless, debris floating outward, as he felt the warm wetness of Tilrey’s own orgasm inside him. Their slick bodies merged in velvety blackness, drifting through a void for one brief, endless moment when nothing else existed—not the bed, not the room, not the house, not Oslov. Only the two of them.

When Gersha came back to himself, he was lying on his side with his cheek pillowed on Tilrey’s upper arm. He felt soggy inside and impossibly tender, and movement made him wince in a pleasant way.

He lifted his head to check the clock—still an hour before their guests arrived. They could afford to lie here for a few minutes. Tilrey’s breathing was evening out, as if he were dozing, so Gersha would take control. Gersha would wake him.

This was how they worked now: as a team. Always. He pressed his cheek to soft flesh and hard muscle, remembering abruptly what Tilrey had said back when he was too far gone to take meaningful heed:

_I don’t know if I trust myself to steer the ship._

What did that mean? The rebellion? Gersha didn’t know if he’d trust himself to steer one, either, but he was sure Tilrey was more competent than whoever was doing it now.

Tilrey had seen the extremes of Oslov life—Redda and Thurskein, the Sector and factories and brothels. His own son straddled the divide. He didn’t have a narrow, self-interested motive or hold petty grudges; he understood that Upstarts and Laborers were all just people. If anyone could find a fair and peaceful way to change things, he would—with Gersha’s help and input, of course.

Gersha pressed a kiss to Tilrey’s arm, then levered himself onto his elbows to peer into his husband’s face. Tilrey always looked so like a small boy in these moments, each long lash distinct on his cheek.

Those eyes opened, groggy and satisfied. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Gersha found Tilrey’s hand and kissed the palm. “Not even close.”

“You’ll have bruises on your wrists. You should tell me to hold back.”

“I didn’t want you to. Not this time.” But Tilrey sounded so troubled, so in need of soothing. Working on reflex, Gersha reached down between their bodies and took hold of the now-soft cock.

It hardened quickly in his expert grasp, and Tilrey arched his back and closed his eyes. “You’re going to break me,” he gasped.

“Will I?” Gersha asked innocently. All he wanted was to remind Tilrey that their coupling could be as tender and loving as it could be violent. He ran the heel of his hand up the length of Tilrey’s cock, gripping hard, then bent to lick around the tip, gentle and ravenous at once.

Tilrey bucked hard into Gersha’s mouth, then collapsed again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But you shouldn’t _do _that. Not without warning.”

“Shhh.” Keeping a firm grip on Tilrey’s cock, Gersha crept up to nibble at his husband’s soft throat, then down to run his tongue around a nipple. Taking his time—but not forgetting the clock—he explored the hard planes of Tilrey’s chest, licking and sucking and leaving kisses all the way to the navel. He was pleased to note that the cock jutting from its nest of soft reddish hair was an angry purple again.

Tilrey shivered under Gersha, desperate for a hand or mouth to close around him. “Our guests,” he whispered helplessly.

“Shhh, my love. I’ve got an eye on the time.” Gersha drew spirals on Tilrey’s belly with a fingertip, inching slowly, slowly downward. “You’re safe in my hands. You’re loved. Always. This shouldn’t take long at all.”

***

The vacation villa loomed through the whirling snow. Both the ground floor and the upper hallway under the slanted roof were lit up, welcoming.

Though he was shivering, Valgund Linnett stopped to stare. The cold emptiness of the outdoors frightened him, but entering a stranger’s home frightened him more.

“I feel like an unwanted child being dropped off at school,” he said, adopting an arch tone to keep his sister from guessing at his terror.

Vera turned back to peer at him through the snow. “Are we going to have this discussion again? They’re happy to have you, and it’s all worked out. As of tomorrow, they’ll be back in Redda. You can get acclimated all by yourself.”

_I wish I were by myself _now_. _Valgund wasn’t ready for this. He had been free for just four days, owing to the intervention of Vera and her new husband, and he’d spent most of those days curled up on the bed of his parents’ spare room, counting breaths and staring at the wall.

He couldn’t explain to anyone that he _missed_ the places where he’d spent the past decade: the snug cells and passageways and rec lounges of the moral rehab facility. He kept jolting upright and wheeling around, expecting to hear alerts and alarms ringing: _Danger, danger, subversive on the loose!_

Today he’d let his mother take him for a walk on the ski trail. But before they could reach the woods, the enormous sky bore down on him, its weight making him shake uncontrollably, and he asked to go home.

Now that the midday twilight was gone, the sky felt lighter. Pushing the terror back into his mental wallpaper, he followed Vera up the steps to the door. He owed it to his sister at least to try this solution.

“Open it,” Vera said, pointing to the sensor.

They’d stuck a new chip in Valgund’s hand. He pressed it to the panel. His sister must have access to the villa, too, but he supposed she wanted him to do this for symbolic reasons, so he’d feel truly at home. As if he could be at home anywhere.

The door slid open obediently. Valgund sank onto a bench in the coldroom and began the arduous process of removing his outergear. After years of indoor confinement, he’d forgotten how long it all took.

He didn’t yet feel comfortable in the clothes they’d given him—the tightly buckled tunic of an Upstart, albeit a low-level one. From now on, he would be a “biology researcher,” collecting specimens in the woods and doing routine data entry on a terminal connected to the Biosciences hub in Redda.

It was a joke. He was only still an Upstart because of his connections. He hoped his brother-in-law, whom he hadn’t even met, didn’t expect too much gratitude.

The clasp on his right boot defeated him, and Vera knelt beside him and helped out. “I meant what I said about Gersha,” she said. “He’s not what you think.”

Valgund snorted. “I was at school with a couple of Gáddens.”

“Gersha’s older. Those must have been his cousins.”

The Gáddens had been insufferable little bullies. They hadn’t bothered Valgund much, but they’d been cruel to Garsha—and there he went, thinking about Garsha Lindahl again.

After he’d spent years filling his brain with bright white light and bland mantras (“I am in complete control” was a favorite of the counselors), it should have been scrubbed of the last clinging residue of those memories. But freedom had triggered something. Last night in bed, half asleep, Valgund felt someone roll over beside him. Warm breath brushed his ear.

_You’re dead_. It didn’t matter. His treacherous memory was already filling in the details. He could almost hear his lover laughing softly and saying, “Don’t be such a little stick-in-the-mud, Gunsha. You’ll never get rid of me.”

It was the last thing Garsha had said to him as they huddled together in an improvised snow cave on the edge of the Wastes, sheltering from a storm. They’d drifted into sleep, keeping each other warm. When Valgund woke, he was in a hospital bed, his hand-chip already designating him as Incompetent. Garsha hadn’t made it.

Valgund wasn’t officially Incompetent anymore. As the inner door slid open, though, he knew he wasn’t competent to make polite conversation.

He stopped short at the sight of a young man who was as tall as a saga hero, with blazing eyes and golden hair.

“Welcome,” the hero said, more to the gaping Valgund than to Vera. “Did you walk? You must be freezing. We’ve got the kettle on.”

“How nice,” Vera said stiffly. “Tilrey, you might remember my brother, Valgund. Gunsha, this is Tilrey.”

Oh right, this was the kettle boy. No, not a kettle boy anymore, but the father of Valgund’s nephew. A member of the family. Things in Valgund’s life kept making less and less sense.

“Of course I remember you, Fir.” Tilrey extended a hand, and a panicked void opened in Valgund’s chest. What was he supposed to do? Clasp it from above? He’d lived free in the world for such a short time after his Notification that he had no practice in being an Upstart—not to mention he didn’t _believe_ in being one.

He was relieved when Tilrey simply pressed their palms together. The Laborer’s hand was larger than Valgund’s, warm and matter-of-fact. Aside from growing to heroic proportions, he hadn’t changed much from the gorgeous boy who’d appeared in their vacation house one day. Valgund’s breath hitched as he remembered how jealous he’d been when he caught his sister and that boy together.

Eons ago. Valgund tried to focus on Tilrey’s jerkin, which was misbuttoned, as if the young man had dressed in haste. He said, “My mom’s right. Your son looks like you.”

“_Gunsha_.”

Too late, Valgund remembered Vera had warned him to be careful about discussing her son’s parentage. But it wasn’t like Tilrey didn’t know, and he certainly didn’t look concerned. “He does, Fir. Come in and sit down. You must be half-frozen.”

Being called _Fir_ made Valgund feel like a live wire had twitched inside him. “Please,” he said, sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch, “just my name.”

“Yes, please,” Vera told Tilrey. “You know, sometimes I think you do that on purpose to make people uncomfortable.”

“I do it because I was _taught _to do it.” His voice had an edge.

“Not by me. Never by me.” Vera sounded sad.

Valgund took it all in. Vera had made it clear the two of them weren’t a couple, but he hadn’t realized how far they were from even being friends. Surely she and Gersha were on better terms? Green hells, he hoped Gersha hadn’t offered him a home out of sheer pity.

Tilrey said, “I’m explaining why it’s a reflex. If you don’t like gestures of respect, take that up with your peers. Gersha, love, do you need help in there?”

“No! Coming!” The tenor voice was slightly frantic, mirroring Valgund’s own state of mind.

“I think he needs help.” Tilrey disappeared into the kitchen.

Vera’s cheeks were pink. “He can be touchy,” she said under her breath. “But that’s just our history. He understands about you. And Gersha—”

She broke off as the two men returned, the Councillor carrying the steaming teapot and tumblers on a tray.

He was smaller than his lover, with delicate features and great big eyes that glanced furtively at Valgund and away. Valgund had meant to observe them both from a neutral remove, to know what he was dealing with, but he couldn’t help feeling better as he realized the Councillor was nervous, too.

Not that Gersha’s nervousness compared to his own. The man set down the tray and came to clasp Valgund’s hand graciously. “It’s so good to meet you finally. Vera’s told me many good things.”

“She did?” Valgund couldn’t imagine there’d be any good things to say, let alone many. But Gersha’s smile had none of the fearful hesitation he’d noticed in his various Upstart visitors over the years, even sometimes in his own father.

“She tells me you’ve made a study of the flora and fauna of the taiga.” As if he could tell that Valgund was starting to feel crowded, Gersha took a step back. “I can learn a lot from you.”

“All I’ve done is read books and make sketches,” Valgund confessed.

“But your sketches are wonderful—so detailed.”

“I took the liberty of showing him a few,” Vera said.

Gersha’s wide green eyes were almost excited. “I hope you’ll make more. I’d love to see what you can produce when you’re working from life, not books and memory. No, stop that, Rishka!” This was to Tilrey, who’d knelt to serve the tea. “Let me do that today.”

Tilrey rolled his eyes and kept on pouring. “You’re busy talking. Besides, you always spill some.”

“That’s why I need practice.” Gersha settled beside Vera, his cheeks pink. Perhaps it was Valgund’s imagination, but he thought the Councillor winced as he hit the couch. Valgund remembered that particular soreness all too well (_warm breath in his ear; Garsha whispering,_ “_Am I hurting you?”_). He shut his eyes for an instant, banishing the memory.

“Sometimes I think he forgets that I used to do everything for myself before I had him to spoil me,” Gersha lamented.

“You did _most _things for yourself.” Tilrey spoke with mock sternness. “Other things . . . well, they can’t be done solo.”

Valgund couldn’t resist a shy smile. He hadn’t expected the two of them to have such a free and easy rapport, even knowing what he did about the true motives for Gersha’s marriage. His cheeks warmed as he watched the Councillor’s gaze linger tenderly on the younger man. Had they just come from bed? He wouldn’t be surprised, though they were doing a decent job of maintaining their decorum.

“How is Ceillsha today?” Gersha asked.

Vera’s face glowed. “He was fretting this morning, and there was some spit-up, but then he had a nap and woke up and gave me the most beautiful smile. I think he misses you.”

Gersha looked wistful. “We’ll see him on third-night, I hope?”

“Of course. You know, yesterday there was a fox out in the yard, and Mother swears Ceill was following it with his eyes. She thinks he’s ahead of the usual developmental schedule.”

Valgund liked his tiny nephew as much as it was possible to like someone who didn’t yet have a discernable personality, but he’d heard these stories already. He let his eyes wander around the room, trying to decide what he thought of his new home—or new cell, as it might be.

The villa seemed neat but lived in, with bookshelves everywhere, rocks from outdoors, and a few touches of color, like the deep purple robe that hung on the bathroom door. That must come from Harbour. It might even be silk, a material Valgund only ever seen—and touched, with a sensuous thrill—in his grandfather’s house.

He turned to find Tilrey handing him a steaming tumbler. “You’ve probably had your fill of baby talk,” the Laborer said quietly.

Valgund reddened. “He’s a wonderful baby. It’s just—babies don’t really make conversation.”

“They don’t, do they?” With the smallest complicit grin, Tilrey settled on the couch beside him. “Tell me, was it your grandfather who first got you interested in the taiga ecosystem?”

“He used to take me on walks,” Valgund said awkwardly. “We’d look at things.” His walks with Grandfather in the Southern Range had stopped when Tilrey entered the picture. At the time, he recalled, he’d been miffed about it. Almost jealous, in some bizarre way.

Now he wondered if Tilrey also had experience in being a prisoner.

The counselors used to ask Valgund about his walks with Grandfather, too, but they did it to test him, trying to get him to admit that he was still unnaturally obsessed with the outdoors, the Harga. Over and over they lectured him on the importance of focusing inward, on warmth and logic and his fellow human beings. The outdoors, they reminded him, had killed his Garsha.

But Tilrey only said, “He did the same with me. Did he ever take you up the trail to the pre-Feudal ruins?”

It was a vivid memory from Valgund’s childhood—shifting green and warm sun on his back and the stinging scent of pine needles. They’d spent most of one endless summer day on the site, examining the huts and artifacts, after which Grandfather insisted they put everything back where they found it.

“Are the ruins still there?” Valgund asked, unable to keep the longing out of his voice. “No one’s trashed the place?”

“No. Your grandfather used to say it should be preserved as a historic site, but mostly I think people ignore it. They choose not to see it because it’s not part of the world they’ve decided matters.”

Those blue eyes were so intent that Valgund flinched. The Laborer _must_ be testing him, but not like the counselors had. Not in any way he was used to.

He licked his dry lips. “I like to see things. Outside the city. Things other people don’t notice.”

He sounded like an idiot. But Tilrey only gazed levelly at him. “I could take you to the ruins tomorrow morning, if you like. Or just remind you of the way.”

He should say no. He should. But instead Valgund found his lips curving in the slightest smile. “I would like that, Tilrey. Thank you.”

***

His new room was small, tucked under the eaves. But that was fine. He felt snug and secure there—private, too, since the master bedroom and bathroom were on the more expansive ground floor.

Valgund washed in the half-bath, undressed, and turned off the light. Snow battered the oblong window and the skylight, washing the room in eerie radiance. He slipped under the heavy bedclothes and lay watching the storm from his comfortable burrow, just as he had watched storms rage over the Wastes from his cell.

Faint sounds filtered up from downstairs. A rumbling laugh—that was Tilrey. A lighter murmur—that was Gersha.

Vera had departed with a kiss a few hours ago. Valgund lingered in the living room for as long as he could bear the sociability—which turned out to be longer than he expected, perhaps because Tilrey and Gersha were reminiscing about their adventures in Harbour, and he was riveted.

At last, he’d left them sharing a bottle of Harbourer brandy, apparently a gift from a friend. They offered Valgund some, but he declined because he was still taking his rehab-prescribed meds, though now at lower doses.

He planned to experiment, figuring out which of the pills actually steadied his nerves and which were simply designed to keep him docile. He knew better than to go cold turkey, but it was exhilarating to realize he could be responsible for his own state of mind.

Another low laugh from below. Valgund imagined the two of them sitting closer now. A head on a shoulder, a careless caress. What would that be like—to have years ahead of you with someone you loved?

He and Garsha had had so little time together at University. He remembered every night they’d shared on the rickety beds in their dorm rooms, laughing and petting and drinking smuggled-in rotgut. Green hells, would he ever forget those nights?

He tried to focus on the fury of the storm, to hear its wailing through the walls. Tomorrow, if things cleared up, Tilrey would take him through the woods to see the ruins. Valgund would feel the weight of the sky again, and this time he knew he could bear it.

Before his sister left, he’d promised her he’d be okay. He still wasn’t sure what “okay” meant. But perhaps now, hour by hour and day by day, he would find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe this should have been the Valentine's Day chapter. ;) I do like my hygge.


	29. Working Out the Kinks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny bit of F/F in this chapter. I've adjusted the tags...

When Einara was summoned to the Brothel director’s private suite, her first reaction was relief. Anything was better than another day of waiting.

Then cold terror washed over her. Her fingertips went numb. She closed her eyes and counted to seventeen, breathing deep and evenly.

As a child, she’d been fascinated by numerology, the lore of prime numbers in particular, and some superstitious part of her still believed they were good luck. Over the past two ten-days, she’d had trouble concentrating on much of anything. But whenever her mind wandered—in the warm steam of the showers, or under a patron—she counted to seventeen or twenty-three in her head, over and over, to keep herself from remembering Irin’s dead eyes.

Now she opened her eyes and retrieved the stolen kitchen knife from its hiding place inside the mattress lining. Since Irin went missing, the Brothel had had an unprecedented three unannounced room searches—“inspections,” they were called. But the searchers had been careless, and the knife remained hers.

She tucked it in the inner pocket of her fleece, close to her body. This time, the blade could only be for herself. Dragging Irin out of the basement was one thing, but Hulda Dartán’s suite was centrally located at the entrance to the Brothel dorms, which saw foot traffic all night. Even if Einara had the stomach for killing a second Oslov so soon after the first, there was no way to smuggle out a corpse.

She’d just have to hope Irin’s aunt wanted her for something else.

She was proud of her placid face as she walked up the corridor and knocked. Why shouldn’t she be calm? If Irin had been found, and Einara had been implicated, she would be sitting handcuffed before a Constable right now. The likeliest scenario was that Irin had told his aunt something vague that aroused her suspicions.

He couldn’t have told her about Einara’s true identity, the Verses, or his plan to extract them, because then Hulda wouldn’t have waited this long. Einara had never exchanged more than a few words with the Brothel keeper—always keeping her eyes down—but she knew the woman was no pushover. The staff were always complaining about her edicts.

So, in addition to playing very dumb, Einara might need to deploy some seduction. That was nothing new.

The door opened to reveal the old woman in a soft white dressing gown, her iron-gray hair braided around her head. “Come in, dear.”

Einara stepped in, suddenly aware of how she towered over the slight little Brothel keeper. She was tempted to laugh, but kept her face blank. “Lars said you wanted me, Fir’n Director?”

“Yes, yes.” A tea kettle whistled, and Hulda stepped into the adjoining kitchenette. “Could you help me carry in the tea, dear? What is your name again?”

“Derán, Einara.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Hulda poured the tea, then arranged the pot and tumblers on a tray and handed it to Einara. “Our statuesque beauty from the Wastes. You know, I’ve been hearing from some of your patrons that you’re an excellent masseuse. I wonder if you could help me with some kinks in my lower back.”

“Of course.” Weak with relief, but reminding herself not to get comfortable yet, Einara set the tea tray on the low table and knelt to pour. “Whatever I can do, Fir’n.”

“Excellent.” Hulda settled herself on the couch and took a sip. “We don’t have a proper table here, but I’m sure you can improvise.” She peeled off her robe and the loose shirt under it and lowered herself onto her stomach on the couch, stretching her legs out. “Is there room for you? Ah, yes, that will work.”

Kneeling up beside the director, Einara began gingerly to knead on either side of the woman’s spine. Old people had such loose skin, you had to be gentle. “How does that feel?”

“Nice. A bit to the right, please—ah, yes. That’s a trouble spot.”

Keiran, one of the other girls here, had told Einara that Hulda sometimes chose a female favorite to share her bed. _Please, let her just want that_. The memory of her fears, her superstitious counting, the knife tucked in her fleece, made Einara lightheaded.

Or maybe she was reacting to the hint of sap she could taste in the tea. Hulda must have slipped it in while she was distracted, trying to soften her up—the sly one!

The woman murmured with satisfaction. “Oh yes, that’s nice, my girl. It’s nasty sitting at a desk all day, though not as hard as what you do. Believe me, I know. Tell me, how are you getting on here? You seem to have become quite a favorite of Fir Councillor Linbeck.”

“I do my best, Fir’n.” Einara tried to sound timid and modest, just as she had with Irin. She sat up a little taller and began to work on the director’s shoulders.

“Indeed you do. My nephew told me you squeezed that rat of a Councillor until he confessed his secret affection for a Drudge.”

Einara’s hands faltered. While whores and other staff routinely insulted the patrons behind their backs, she’d never heard the director talk that way. “Irin told you that, Fir’n?”

“Please continue, dear.” A sigh shuddered the woman’s shoulders. “Surely you knew my nephew was reporting to me.”

Einara continued with the massage, though she was starting to feel uneasy. “I didn’t think about who he was reporting to, Fir’n. I just did what he said.”

“Of course. Very obedient, aren’t you, dear? So docile and reasonable—for an Outer-born, especially. Listening to you speak, I could swear you were born in Redda.”

_Don’t stop. Don’t miss a beat. _Einara ran her palms down Hulda’s sides. “My father was from Redda, Fir’n. That’s what my mother said. I learned to speak properly from him when I was little, and then from the soldiers.”

“Oh yes, the soldiers at the Eivand garrison.” Hulda’s voice had fallen into a lulling rhythm. “Some of them remember you well. They said you came from Ilfandten, the hamlet on the other side of the hill.”

Einara rocked back on her heels, the breath freezing in her throat. The woman had been looking into her background, investigating her—why?

Hulda continued as if nothing had changed. “Funny thing, though. No one in Ilfandten seems to recall your mother or her Oslov lover. They say you arrived in their village about six years ago, all alone, and sought work at the local tavern.”

“Tavern” was a grand name for a shack that stank of beer and piss. Einara remembered the greasy-haired proprietor who looked her up and down and said, “Lookin’ to meet some soldiers, are you, love?” She wasn’t surprised he’d tattled on her.

But he didn’t really know anything. None of them did. _Don’t miss a beat. _She had to find out exactly how much Hulda knew or suspected. “I might not have been completely honest with the soldiers about where I came from, Fir’n. I wanted to protect my mother.”

Hulda clicked her tongue. “Did you lie to the immigration officers, too?”

“I never talked to a single officer, Fir’n.” That was true. The corporal had simply brought her here and done a rapid transaction with the Brothel steward—selling her to the Brothel, probably for sap. No one asked her origin, let alone her opinion. She supposed the steward had taken care of the relevant paperwork.

Hulda knew how those things worked; there was no point in explaining. “I don’t understand,” Einara said in a way she hoped sounded positively infantile. “Have I done something wrong?”

The Brothel director sat up and stretched, unself-conscious about her half-nudity. Taking her time, she pulled on her robe, then took a sip of tea.

Her eyes met Einara’s over the tumbler. “I don’t know, love. Have you? You act sweet and brainless, but my nephew said you worked the Councillor quite cleverly. He was impressed with you—Irin, that is. I imagine that’s why he arranged to meet you on the night he disappeared.”

And just like that, every inch of Einara’s body was alive with pulsing adrenaline. She went still, acutely conscious of the knife in her breast pocket. The lights of the room were white hot, the walls too close and getting closer. _One, two, three . . ._

She heard her own calm voice say, “I don’t know what you mean, Fir’n. What night was that?”

“You’re very good, my dear.” Hulda took another sip. “Very convincing with those wide eyes. Your training must have been superlative.”

“Please, Fir’n, I really don’t unders—”

Hulda silenced her with a gesture. “Don’t bother. I’m not here to wring a confession out of you. I don’t need one. Lars brought you a rice cake that night on Irin’s instructions. My nephew wasn’t prone to spontaneous gestures of kindness.”

Iron bands cinched Einara’s throat. Her heart thundered, drowning out the gentle ambient hum of heating. Even as her eyes filled with tears, though, she seemed to float above the scene and observe it coldly: the old woman’s ambush and her own not-entirely-feigned flustered confusion.

If Hulda meant to give her to the Constables, or to the secret police that everyone dreaded, she would have done so already. What did she want from Einara, then? The same thing Irin had?

She should use the knife on herself—now, quickly—and repair the terrible mistake she’d made twenty days ago. But her hands refused to move. “Please,” she whispered, but this time no lies came to her lips. Hulda would see through them. “Whatever you want, I . . . can’t.”

The old woman regarded her with a strange expression, half pity and half wonderment. “No, you can’t, can you? You’ve been programmed, just like one of our machines. Tell me, why did you kill my nephew? Because he asked you for something you weren’t allowed to give?”

The room went blurry. Einara blinked, and tears rolled down her cheeks, but her inner self stayed ice. “I didn’t,” she said, because if she confessed she would have to die. No other way out this time.

Hulda nodded. Her own eyes were damp, but her face was patient. “You didn’t want to do it, did you? Don’t get me wrong, girl. You’ll find no sympathy here. You’re a nasty little piece of work, and I love my nephew. Loved. But he’s had a reckless side ever since he was a child. I think he pushed you into a corner, and you did the only thing your training would let you. You pushed back.”

If the woman felt no sympathy, what did she want? Einara shook her head firmly, even as her tears confessed for her. “I _didn’t_.”

“Of course you didn’t, sweetheart.” Hulda rose from the couch and came to her. Einara braced herself for a blow, but the old woman only stroked the hair off her forehead. “Poor girl. For Irin’s sake, I should probably stick a knife in your gut.” Einara flinched again, and Hulda laughed softly. “Believe me, I would get away with it. I can do whatever I like here, at least to someone like you. Keep that in mind.”

Fingers were in her hair again, tightening and pulling. Einara sobbed.

Hulda gave her a reproving look, as if to tell her to stop faking. “But Irin’s gone, isn’t he? Killing you won’t bring him back. All we can do is continue to fight for the cause he believed in.”

Maybe Hulda wasn’t trying to trick her. Maybe Hulda was mad. Einara leaned into the woman’s harsh-gentle touch like a dog fawning on its master. _Maybe I can still get out of this. _“What cause do you mean, Fir’n?”

“It doesn’t matter to you, does it, dear? You have a different mission.” Hulda released her and sat on the floor, carelessly letting her robe fall open. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t borrow you a bit. Stop shaking, girl. I’m not going to force you to tell your deepest secrets. Come back to me. Look at me.”

With a start, Einara realized she’d started counting again. She needed to slip away to that quiet inner space where she’d find the courage to use the knife on herself. But Hulda’s voice kept pulling her back to this white room, far from the Colonel and her trainers. She was in Redda. This was all happening.

The knife was in her hand before she was conscious of reaching for it. “Don’t,” she said, scrambling backward. “Don’t try to make me. Don’t.”

Hulda just watched her. “I’m interested in the parameters you work within,” she said. “You can’t tell me the backdoor passwords, that much is clear. You can’t talk about your origins or your mission. Beyond that, though, what can you do, dear? You helped Irin with Councillor Linbeck. Could you help me in similar ways?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Einara shook her head wildly. _Focus. Ignore her. Use the knife._

Hulda kept talking in that awful, croaking, reasonable voice, pulling her back to reality. “I thought you might be able to help me with the staff the way Irin did—collecting the useful tidbits they hear from their patrons. I’m sorely feeling my nephew’s absence, you see. I can’t do everything myself.”

As she spoke, the woman reached out and plucked the knife from Einara’s fingers. They had gone limp; another second, Einara realized with a sinking sensation, and she would have dropped it anyway.

She was so tired.

“You should kill me,” she said in a small voice, watching the Oslov examine the knife and run a finger down the blade. “It would only be fair.”

“Fair, maybe. But a waste.” Hulda placed the knife carefully, respectfully on the edge of the table. “When you leave here, you’ll return that to the kitchen where it belongs. And from now on, without disobeying your pre-existing orders, you will follow _my_ orders, too. Is that clear?”

Einara felt herself nodding. None of this made sense. But then, it never had made sense to have two missions at once, one for the Colonel and one for herself. Something had to give. When she’d chosen to kill Irin and live, she had become a traitor to Resurgence, loyal to no one but herself.

Maybe she could say yes to Hulda, just as she had to the Colonel, and keep right on working secretly for herself—_and you, my mother and sister_—burrowing away under the surface.

“I want something in return, Fir’n,” she whispered. “Something just for me.”

“We all want something, my dear.” Hulda’s voice had gone cold. “I, for one, want to know where I can find my nephew so I can give him a proper cremation and cleanse his spirit of the horrors you made him suffer in his last moment. Can you give me that?”

Einara shuddered. _Don’t tell. _But she didn’t want Irin to rest forever in the ice grave, either. “Come close,” she said.

“So you can throttle me?” Hulda asked dryly. But she did lean close, and Einara brought her lips to the woman’s ear and whispered where to find Irin. Her voice was so low she could barely hear herself.

As they parted, a powerful rush of dizziness darkened Einara’s vision. When it cleared, her breath came strong and even. She’d disobeyed, and she was still alive. The Colonel couldn’t touch her here.

She swiped the knife from the table and tucked it back in her fleece. “I’m keeping this. If you try to have me arrested, I’ll be dead before I cross the threshold.”

“That’s the spirit.” Hulda’s smile was ugly. “You’ll make a fine assistant now that you’re being more honest with me. And since we’re making threats—I know you don’t want to die. So let’s both work within each other’s limitations, shall we?”

_Yes. _Einara could tell already that working for this woman, who actually understood her, would be easier than working for Irin. She would learn everything she could about the inner workings of the Brothel, its ties to the anti-government rebels and to organized crime. And she would use what she learned to secure the only thing that mattered to her.

After all, Hulda couldn’t live forever.

She wasn’t surprised when Hulda reached out and drew her close and kissed her gently, almost ceremoniously, on the mouth. She didn’t suppress a shiver. But she let her lips fall open, offering whatever the woman wanted.

If Hulda was mad, she was mad like the Colonel—the sort of cold madness that could lead armies—and she knew everything about this cursed city. She would be a fine mentor.

The kiss deepened, Einara letting her body melt against the other woman’s warmth, until Hulda thrust her away again. “Clever, aren’t you? We’ll have plenty of time for that.”

Einara made her eyes big and mournful. “Will we?”

“Oh yes, my little cutthroat. For now, I want you to tell me everything you’ve seen and heard in this establishment—from my nephew, the staff, the patrons. I want to see how observant you’ve been.”

Einara nodded. That was easy, but something nagged at her. “Your friends?” she asked. “The other shirkers? They won’t want to know . . .?”

“What Irin wanted to know? Oh, they do indeed.” The old woman’s chin lifted. “But _I_ am still in charge here, and my will is law. As far as I’m concerned, hacking is a coward’s weapon. If we can’t rouse the will of the people without such tricks, what right do we have to rebel at all?”

Einara didn’t understand the subtleties of Oslov politics, let alone care, but she nodded. “You won’t let them question me, then?”

Hulda laughed—not a cackle but a full-throated, almost pleasant guffaw. “No. I have no intention of letting you near my associates, especially the one who put me on your trail in the first place. You’d try to gut him like a fish, and he may be our greatest hope. Time will tell, but he could be the shadow Magistrate of the whole damned Council someday. Men can be so _stupid_—but you know that. As does he.”

She lifted a lock of Einara’s hair and ran it through her fingers. “No. Tilrey will work in the light, and you’ll work in the shadows, and never the twain shall meet. If you’re a good, useful girl, if I can trust you, I might even consider grooming you for my position someday. I don’t expect to live to see the revolution, but I want to know it’s in good hands. Dark and light—because even Oslov has its dark corners where reason doesn’t reach. You and I know that too well. We’ve both endured the darker side of Oslovs, haven’t we? Especially of men?”

“Yes.” Einara’s shiver wasn’t feigned this time. The soldiers hadn’t been gentle.

“Yes. We have plenty in common.” The old woman’s mouth quirked. “But if you’re not useful, if you even think of betraying me, I’ll still kill you as nastily as you killed my poor nephew, may his last moment be bright. Now, go ahead, sweet girl. Tell me everything you’ve learned. Perform for me. Earn your keep.”

Einara raised her eyes and swore a silent oath to her sister: _You will not be forgotten. _“Of course,” she said. “Whatever you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. I realize this whole chapter and relationship are a bit ... messed? Is that the word? I was going to have Hulda enlist Einara for her ends without guessing that she killed Irin, but Hulda is way too smart for that. So instead she's cold as ice. And we have the dark, amoral side of the revolution to Tilrey and Gersha's idealistic, reformist side. Does it work? I'm honestly not sure yet myself, but it was fun to write.
> 
> If you've stuck it out through this long story, thank you!!! <3 It got me through many vicissitudes in my other, daylight writing life. My plan is to return to "All the Kinds of Broken" and then start a new story called "Tales from the Sanctioned Brothel," which will take us through some of the years between now and when Ceill grows up. Yup, I want to grow him up and see what happens. :) That's the ultimate plan here. Thank you from the bottom of my (warmed-up) heart for reading, kudo-ing, and commenting! It means so much.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'll try to update this story weekly and may start updating "All the Kinds of Broken" biweekly, but we'll see how things go. Updates are also [on Tumblr](https://welcome-to-oslov.tumblr.com/).


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